


Devil's Backbone

by Feyland



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Drugs, Gang warfare, Gangs, Jehanparnasse - Freeform, Misgendering, Multi, Murder, Non-binary character, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Threats of Violence, Trans Character, Violence, past trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-22
Updated: 2018-02-03
Packaged: 2018-11-17 10:04:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 29,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11273247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feyland/pseuds/Feyland
Summary: When Jehan Prouvaire is abducted as part of a gang's debt, Patron-Minette becomes their unlikely saviour. Having an association with - and affections for - a young assassin is a dangerous game to play, but as Jehan is pulled deeper into the midst of a gang war, they risk a lot more than their heart.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is terrifyingly the first fic I've posted online since high school soooooo let's see how my confidence holds up.
> 
> Massive trigger warnings for this chapter (and probably the rest of the fic as well): Violence, mentions of homophobia and homophobic violence, misgendering, sexual assault/rape, threats of sexual assault/rape, subtle references to past trauma, murder, subtle drug mention, & guns.
> 
> Title from the Civil Wars song by the same name.

Jehan felt as though they might drown in the chaos. Bodies pushed around them as people tried to flee. It was difficult to tell where the first shot had come from, and several more peppered the air as the natural instinct the run took over the assembled protesters. Jehan stood rooted in place, unwilling to submit to the current moving people away from the makeshift stage. Sweat ran down their face, mixing with the first tears of frustration. Jehan fiercely wiped their eyes, stubbornly refusing to break until they had found their friends. They could hear Enjolras, his amplified voice begging police to end the assault on what should have been a peaceful protest. If Jehan could only make it to the front of the crowd-

A heavy shoulder sent Jehan crashing to the ground, their homemade sign clattering onto the concrete next to them. People continued to move around Jehan, leaping over them in an act of self-preservation as Jehan struggled to catch their breath again. Someone’s foot came down on their hand and they yelped, tears again stinging their eyes. They got to their knees, their vision still blurred, and reached for their sign, only to find it immediately yanked from their hand as they tried to use it for support. Jehan shot their gaze up to the thief, a large man who grinned down at them with none of the fear and alarm shown by the rest of the crowd. He raised the sign and swung it hard at Jehan, who raised their arm too late to block the attack. They felt wood splinter as it connected with their head, and a wave of nausea joined the pain as they hit the ground again. 

“Please,” was all they managed before the second blow fell and they blacked out completely. 

 

Consciousness crept in gradually, along with foggy memories, dull pain, and the sudden and overwhelming sense of fear. Jehan struggled, bare thighs scraping across the cold concrete floor, as they tried to discern their situation. Rough fabric had been tied tightly over their eyes, and their hands were restrained behind them. Jehan let out a shaky breath, trying to quell the building panic in them as they managed to sit up, gingerly leaning against the wall behind them. The motion eased the tension on their shoulders, and Jehan turned their attention to their bindings. Their wrists were clamped tightly together with what Jehan thought to be a zip tie. Escape tips from online tutorials played through their head, but they could only remember vague suggestions for when the hands were restrained in front. They pulled experimentally and immediately hissed at the sharp pain that shot up their arms. Evidently, the zip tie had already cut through Jehan’s skin. They could feel their heart pounding in their throat as the reality of their situation set in. They had sustained some sort of head trauma and were likely concussed, an assumption strengthened by the fatigue that still encircled their mind despite the adrenaline and hyper-awareness that had seized them. They had been taken from the protest by someone, the man who had attacked them being the most likely culprit. Now they were being detained here, wherever here was, for motives unknown. Jehan could not tell how much time had past. Beyond their blindfold, they could not detect any light. 

The panic that had been building in their chest broke out of them in a whimper. Beyond the reality of the present, the thoughts of why pounded through Jehan’s brain. For what purpose had they been taken, unconscious, from the protest site? A random act of violence towards a queer person at a march for equality was not surprising to them, but a kidnapping meant planning - and a promise of further motives.

From their bound position, Jehan could not reach the blindfold, but the concrete wall behind them was rough, and they twisted towards it, rubbing one side of their face against it in an attempt to pull up the cloth. It was tight, and Jehan gritted their teeth as the skin on their cheek was scraped raw, but the blindfold inched up enough on one side that they could just peek out from underneath. But there was nothing to see. The room was just as dark as it was beneath the cloth. Jehan slumped back against the wall, tears and frustration welling up in tandem. Maybe they could search for an exit, feeling their way slowly through the space until they found - what? An unlocked door? Surely their captor had not gone to all this trouble only to leave an escape route open and inviting. 

The futility of the idea still hung around Jehan’s head when the sound of metal sliding across metal broke the silence. From above them, Jehan could hear footsteps sounding across the floor, and another door being opened. Jehan held their breath as the footsteps started down a staircase that must have been just beyond the wall to Jehan’s right. A defensive instinct seized them, and Jehan pulled their knees in, folding themself into something small and harmless, ducking their head so that their one free eye would go unnoticed as they braced themself for whatever was coming. They could hear voices, loud even through the wall.

“Just through here,” it said as a key started to turn in the lock. “Something to offer you gentlemen to tide you over for a couple of days.”

“We’ll see about that,” said another as the door slid open and the room was suddenly flooded with light. 

Other than the large sliding metal door and the three pairs of legs that now occupied the entrance, Jehan could see nothing but concrete in the empty space, illuminated by a harsh fluorescent that buzzed faintly above. It was the only sound, Jehan realized, other than the blood in their ear, as the men in the doorway stood silent and unmoving. 

“Is this a fucking joke?” One said at last, and Jehan watched as a pair of polished black boots take a step towards the man who had led the way into the room. 

“No joke,” said the man who Jehan assumed was their original captor. “Found her at some protest downtown. Didn’t even have the sense to start running when they started shooting. I reckon she’s pretty dim, but she’s got a pretty nice gash. Made sure of that for you. Didn’t think you’d want her for her brains anyway.” 

All the air left Jehan’s lungs as the sharp bite of their worst fears surfaced. Their body burned with the shame and anger of invasion. They bit their lip hard to keep in a sob, but they began to shake so hard they were sure the men in the room could feel every terrified heartbeat.

“If I understand you,” said the other man, his voice cold and dangerous, “you are offering us a girl you abducted when you should have been doing your job. You want us to accept this in lieu of your payment? Do you really think that is how Patron-Minette does business?”

Jehan’s captor had backed away from the other men, and Jehan could see the nervousness in his hands as the bravado slipped out of his voice.

“Listen, we are going to get you your money. We got interrupted today when we were pushing at the protest. Bad luck is all. But we’re good for it, I swear. This is just a gesture of good faith, y’know?”

The third figure had not moved from the doorway, but watched silently as his companion advanced on the abductor. 

“I think,” he said, “that you had better come up with the money tonight. No distractions. No bribes. We don’t want your token of good faith. There is no good faith here.” 

“I told you, we’ll have the money by the end of the week! If you don’t want the girl, I know plenty of people who would pay to fuck her. I’ll even add that into your cash, but you don’t get it tonight ‘cause I don’t ha-”

Faster than Jehan could follow, their captor’s words were cut off with two bullets, the crack of the shots still ricocheting through the room by the time he fell to the floor just in front of them. A choked cry fell from their lips before they could stifle it as they looked into their captor’s eyes, still wide with surprise and recent life. The bullet holes in his neck and chest were concealed by his mass, but the pool of blood under his body was growing larger by the second. Beyond it, Jehan could just make out the two other men tucking away small hand guns from wherever they had been expertly concealed. Jehan was still frozen when the man who had spoken crossed the room in long strides, avoiding the puddle of blood until he stood in front of Jehan who kept their eyes trained on the shiny black boots.

“I assume you want to get out of here,” he said, and Jehan took a second to realize he was speaking to them. 

Their throat still full of panic, they managed only a quick nod before they felt the blindfold being tugged off roughly. They blinked up at the man, their eyes still burning from tears and light. _He’s so young_ , they thought, and the observation felt strange to them. They had just seen this man - this boy- murder another, and yet they were taking careful note of his green eyes darkened by makeup, and the emotionless expression on a startlingly handsome face as he looked back at them. Smoothly, while his eyes still raked over Jehan, the stranger pulled out a knife that sprang open in his hand, and crouched down in front of them. 

“Turn around,” he said, then must have seen the sharp panic in Jehan’s eyes because he quickly held up his hands, the switchblade still dangerously on display. “I just want to cut off the zip tie,” he explained, and his voice was tinged with what seemed to be an attempt at softness. 

Seeing no alternative but to trust to the killer to slash their bindings and not their throat, Jehan struggled to twist their body enough to present their hands behind them. Cold fingers touched their wrists, pulling at the hard plastic that cut into their skin, and with a quick cut Jehan’s hands were suddenly free. 

Keeping their back turned to the men, Jehan held their arms in front of them, rubbing at the wounds in a way that they knew would only irritate them. They felt the man behind them rise and take a few steps back and stop, as if waiting for Jehan to react. Slowly, they struggled to their knees, and tested one shaky leg then the other while leaning against the wall for support. On their feet, Jehan took a deep breath and let it shudder out before turning to face the men. 

Both were dressed all in black though varied in style. The young man’s pants and shirt were tight, well-cut, and fashionable, while the man in the doorway wore a long coat despite the dead of summer being upon them, and a dark half-mask that would have looked silly rather than unnerving on anyone else. 

“What’s your plan now?” the man in the doorway said, speaking for the first time in a voice smooth and low.

The young man didn’t respond but instead addressed Jehan. “I can help you get out,” he said. “Do you need to go to a hospital?”

“Why not just take her to a police station with a full profile and our home address too,” his companion said as he leaned casually in the doorframe.  
“I’d like to go home,” said Jehan, their voice stronger than they anticipated. Every fibre of them wanted out of this place. They had no choice but to trust these strangers to do it, and so they drew up on the last of their courage, staring down the men. There was a pause as the three considered each other. Then the young man turned and started walking towards the door. 

“I’ll take care of it,” he said to the other, and without turning called back to Jehan. “Are you coming then?”

Slowly, stepping around the corpse on the ground, Jehan restrained every tremble that threatened to break their forced calm. The man in the doorway watched as the young man and then Jehan crossed the threshold, heading for the rough wooden stairs in the hallway beyond. Jehan could still feel his eyes on them as they ascended behind the young killer, praying each step was not another further into the fire. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on tumblr @ feyland


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning for mentions of violence and rape

It was dark when they emerged from the rundown warehouse in which Jehan had been kept. There had been very little inside, nothing to indicate the identity of their dead captor or the organization he worked with. Jehan followed the young man down to the fence that encircled the property where a plain black car waited. Jehan hesitated.

“I suppose it’s a little late to ask you to trust me,” said the man, as if reading Jehan’s thoughts. “But I can take you back into Paris if you’re willing to risk it.” He didn’t look at Jehan as he spoke, but dug a set of keys out of his jacket and unlocked the driver’s side door. 

“Where are we?” asked Jehan.

“Melun. I have to go pick up some people to help deal with…this,” the man said, waving his hand towards the warehouse. “I can drop you off wherever on the way.” 

“Why?”

The man finally turned his full gaze on Jehan. “We have work to do here. You can’t be in the way. And I assume you would rather get away from whatever that piece of shit did to you here.” He swung open the door and slid inside. 

It took Jehan only another second to follow his lead. A last look at the warehouse sent enough of a chill through Jehan that getting into a car with a killer was the option they found least terrifying. Without saying another word, the man started the car and peeled out onto the road, heading North along the Seine. The clock on the dash told Jehan it was 23:28, and they counted back the hours to the protest mid-afternoon. The amount of time they had spent unconscious worried them, and they gently prodded at their temple where they could feel a bruise deepening. Their pulse beat under their fingertips, but the nausea and exhaustion had been diminishing from the moment they had woken up. Jehan considered the possibility that they had been drugged at some point. Joly or Combeferre would be able tell if they were concussed. But the thought of explaining what had happened to anyone right now made Jehan feel cold all over. They couldn’t think about it. The events ran through their head in flashes - the panic of the protest, the pain and fear of waking up alone and bound, the gunshots…

The man next to Jehan said nothing. His face was blank and his eyes stayed on the road, but there was tension in the hands that gripped the wheel. Jehan focused on these as they spoke. 

“I’m not a girl.”

“Okay.” It was not challenging or skeptical, as Jehan had come to expect from most people. It was unreadable, judgements hidden in an even voice.

“My pronouns are they/them,” they said. 

The man glanced at them. “Do you have a name as well?”

“Jehan,” they said, avoiding the man’s eye. The didn’t know why they were telling him this. It was stupid, maybe, and dangerous, certainly, to offer up their personal information to a man they had just seen shoot another dead. But even as logic insisted this, Jehan could still feel the cold concrete under their knees, the scratchy blindfold, and the hot shame of dehumanization as their captor’s words still filled their head. They were not a girl, or a sex toy, or a thing to be sold or bartered. They had a name, and even as it left their tongue, they felt the comfort of identity settle over their skin like armour. 

“Jehan,” repeated the man. It sounded like silk on his lips. Jehan wanted to know how the man’s name would play on them, but they swallowed the question. There was only so much their confidence would allow them with the beautiful killer. Because he was beautiful. Street lights and shadows played on his face, highlighting sharp cheekbones and hooded eyes. His high, arched brows and red lips along with the scent of danger that surrounded him reminded Jehan of tales of wicked faeries and their inevitable effect on humans.

They drove in silence for a few more minutes. The Parisian suburbs were still.

“My name is Montparnasse.”

Jehan jumped, wondering again how Montparnasse had such easy access to their thoughts. They looked at him, and found themself being watched. They felt blood pool in their cheeks but they didn’t drop their gaze. 

“Thank you, Montparnasse. For saving me.” 

Montparnasse smiled. “I’m more used to having people curse my name,” he said. “But I suppose I tend to deserve that.” 

They were coming into Paris proper. The desire to be home, to be safe, filled Jehan’s core, but the discontent of all the unasked questions was curled around it. That part didn’t want the ride to end, and it squeezed tightly when Montparnasse asked, “Where am I taking you?”

“Le Marais,” said Jehan. 

As they neared the centre of Paris, the need to say something deepened in Jehan. They took a deep breath. “I’m not going to tell anyone.” They could feel Montparnasse’s gaze. “I’m not going to go to the police. What you did- I would have done anything you wanted in order to get out of there.” Tears were pooling in their eyes and they sniffed, trying to clear their head. “You could have done anything with me. You could have fucked me or killed me or left me tied up and blindfolded and I wouldn’t have been able to identify you or- or anything.” They were shaking now, their firsts clenched around the skirt of their dress. “I promise, I’m not going to be a problem for you. I owe you that much.”

Without saying a word, Montparnasse turned a quick right into an empty parking and killed the engine. Jehan tried to catch their breath, but it came in short gasps. Fear kept hitting them in the chest as they waited for Montparnasse to say something, but he was silent until Jehan at last found the capacity breathe again. 

“Listen.” Montparnasse’s voice was low. “Patron-Minette is dangerous. Going to the police with any of this would be more or less putting a target on your forehead. But I also know you didn’t ask to be pulled into this. This is your chance to get out, shut up, and forget about us.”

Jehan kept their head down, watching Montparnasse from the corner of their eye. He was drumming his fingers on the steering wheel as he chose his words.

“I’ve done a lot of shit for Patron-Minette - a lot of shit before Paton-Minette too. But if I thought anyone in the gang would have accepted Lemieux’s deal back there, I would have taken them down with him. We don’t deal in that garbage. So don’t do anything stupid and we’ll leave you alone. But that’s not because you owe us anything.” 

Jehan lifted their gaze, meeting Montparnasse’s eyes - intense and dark but flatly honest. Jehan could see the cold promise of retribution there should they expose the young killer. With that, though, was also the look Jehan associated with Enjolras, one of fierce oath and rebellion. They nodded mutely as Montparnasse seemed to expect some sort of answer, and only let out the stale breath they had been holding when the car started again. 

Other than the quiet murmur of Jehan’s directions, neither said much the rest of the way. 

“Here,” they said as they reached a street corner several blocks still from their apartment. “I can walk from here.”

Montparnasse pulled over, keeping his eyes ahead as Jehan struggled to find the right words.

“Thank you,” was all they could manage. What else was there to say? They climbed slowly out of the car, feeling for their balance.

“Be careful,” Montparnasse said from behind them.

Jehan turned and met his eye. They nodded once and shut the door. Montparnasse peeled away, driving too quickly down the near-empty road before turning out of sight. 

Jehan started to walk, the breeze in the night air running over their skin and leaving goosebumps in its wake. Down a narrow street, Jehan didn’t pause as they passed their apartment. Three blocks further, around the corner into the alley behind a restaurant and a liquor store, Jehan pushed open a faded green door with a broken lock, and mounted the wooden stairs behind it. They felt dizzy and tired when they reached the fifth floor, and the effort to knock on the only door was enough to drain the last of their energy. They slumped against the wall, trying to catch their breath as they heard a voice grow nearer, and the door flew open. Grantaire was dressed in the same clothes he had been wearing hours earlier, but the shirt was stained with something the colour of dried blood that worried Jehan as much as the bruise darkening over Grantaire’s brow bone. Grantaire’s eyes went wide when he saw Jehan.

“Jehan! Shit, they’re here,” he said into the phone at his ear. “Tell Combeferre. I’ll call you back.”

Jehan opened their mouth to say something, but when Grantaire’s arms came down around them, they found there was nothing in their throat but a raw sob. 

“I’ve got you. I’ve got you,” they heard Grantaire say, his voice sounding strangled and wet too. 

Supported by thick hands, Jehan was half carried into the apartment as their tears wet Grantaire’s shoulder and they let themself come apart. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “What’s the scent you’re wearing, Montparnasse?”  
> “DANGER” 
> 
>  
> 
> also lol @ my knowledge of Paris geography. My Canadian ass got all my information from Google Maps, and I have no clue about, like, rent prices in certain neighbourhoods or whatever.
> 
> hit me up on tumblr - url is feyland


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for mentions of violence and sexual assault

 

The muffled sound of Grantaire’s phone call on the other side of the bathroom door disappeared as Jehan slid down into the bath, the water muting the world into something like silence. They shut their eyes, grateful for the dim light. Their skin felt raw, scrubbed until it was angry and red, and yet Jehan still felt unclean, as though something was crawling over them in places they couldn’t reach. Their long hair spread out under them, and they reached up to wind the wet strands through their fingers, the feeling grounding as they slowly counted their breaths.

As they at last sat up, Jehan caught the end of a quiet knock at the door.

“Jehan?” Grantaire said. “Um, would it be okay if I came in?”

“Yes,” they said softly. “Please.”

Though plenty of figure drawing and one particularly wild bacchanal had left them mostly unfazed at being naked in front of Grantaire, Jehan still pulled their knees up to their chest and leaned back against the side of the tub as he entered.

“Hey,” said Grantaire as he sat down on the bathmat beside Jehan. Jehan could feel the worry coming off him in waves, but Grantaire didn’t press them. Instead, he filled them in on everything that had happened since the protest that seemed like an impossibly long time ago. 

“No one was killed,” he said. “A few people broke bones, and one guy got shot in the leg when he tried to rush one of the gunmen, but we think they weren’t aiming at people at least. Just trying to scare everyone away. I heard someone was taken in by the police, but really they did fuck-all to help. Actually, Courfeyrac almost got himself arrested for yelling at a cop for not giving a shit that this could have been another queer massacre.”

Jehan cringed, remembering the panic and fear around them before they had been beaten down. The bath suddenly felt too warm.

Grantaire wasn’t looking at them. “We managed to get everyone else together, but we couldn’t find you. Feuilly thought they had seen you get knocked down, but they weren’t sure. We tried calling you but you weren’t answering and we were starting to get really scared.”

Jehan realized they had no idea where their phone was, nor did they have the canvas bag they had brought to the protest. Their wallet, their keys - they were gone, lost or taken sometime between the hysteria of the afternoon and the dark warehouse. The thought of having to replace everything made them want to slip back under the water. 

“We started checking hospitals,” Grantaire continued. “Joly waited at Hôtel-Dieu for like six hours, because that’s where they took the people who were hurt at the protest. Bahorel has been waiting at your apartment in case you showed up. Combeferre was talking to police, but they don’t start missing persons investigations unless there’s evidence of foul play. As if a fucking gunman isn’t evidence enough.” He finally looked up. “Fuck, I was so goddamn worried about you, Jehan. What happened?”

It wasn’t accusatory but the words sent shame through Jehan like a knife. They had known the question would come. Their friends had done so much for them, and Jehan couldn’t even tell them the truth, not really. Too much detail could implicate the others in some way, or at least burden them with information Jehan wished they themself could forget. On top of that, there was their promise to Montparnasse. Despite what he had said, Jehan still felt they owed him a debt that they could pay in silence. 

“Someone hit me,” they said quietly. “They pushed me down and hit me with my sign. I think I blacked out because I woke up in the dark with my hands tied.” They help up their arms as evidence, the skin red and broken. They could see the horror growing on Grantaire’s face. Jehan instinctively ducked their head to hide behind a curtain of hair, but it clung to their neck in damp tendrils. “They blindfolded me. I was somewhere cold. I don’t know how long I was there or how long I was unconscious. Eventually some people came in and made me stand up. They put me in a car. We drove for a while and then they stopped in a parking lot and let me out. They cut the zip ties on my wrists but I couldn’t get the blindfold off until they had driven away. I don’t know who they are.” Tears were running down their face again, matching the ones on Grantaire’s cheeks. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened. Or why. I’m just sorry - I’m sorry.” 

“Shh, shh hey. Don’t you think this is your fault, Jehan. This is- God I’m so sorry.” He reached out to Jehan, moving awkwardly to stroke their hair with the side of the tub between them still. “We’ll find out who did it. We’ll go to the police.”

“No!” Jehan pulled back violently, splashing water all over the floor of the small bathroom, making Grantaire jump. “No no no no no nonononon-” They were sobbing, fighting for the words that would convince him. “I can’t, Grantaire. They’ll come after me. I can’t I can’t. 

“Jehan-” 

“Promise me! Please, please promise me you won’t go to the police.”

Grantaire searched their face, his own contorted into a mask of confusion and worry. Jehan squeezed their eyes shut, blocking out the heartbreak there for which they felt responsible.

“Please,” they said again.

“Okay. Okay, Jehan, whatever you need. I promise, I won’t say a word. I swear it. ”

 

The exhaustion was overwhelming by the time Jehan made their way to Grantaire’s bed. Dressed in one of his old t-shirts, its smell familiar and comforting, Jehan managed to find some semblance of calm as Grantaire combed their hair with his fingers before twisting it into a loose plait. They shuddered the moment the light was shut off, the inky black mirroring the confines of the warehouse cellar. But soft blankets and a thick arm around their waist chased the thought away as they sank down onto the pillow next to Grantaire. Though fear still bubbled in their chest as their thoughts inevitably turned back to their capture, Grantaire’s warmth and steady breathing eventually pulled them under. 

 

They dreamed of masked men driving cars through long tunnels of darkness while they sat helpless in the back seat, and of a hot hand on their thigh, leaving trails of blood behind. Panic filled them when they found that they were paralyzed, immobile as the car went faster, and more hands found their way onto their skin. Jehan could feel them crawling like insects, ready to fill them with poison. One snaked around their throat. Someone was laughing. The hand squeezed. 

 

Gunshots echoed in their ears even as Jehan woke up. Grantaire’s room was still dark, the bedding still soft and warm, but it took time for the dream to fade along with their thundering pulse. Jehan could hear only a dull thumping in place of Grantaire’s quiet breaths. Rolling over carefully, they found the rest of the bed empty and cool. Fear spiked in them again as they sat up, searching the dim room for signs of where Grantaire had gone. A sliver of yellow light seeped from the doorway, and Jehan got out of bed to follow it. From the partially open door, they could see out into the living room where a single lamp cut the semi-dark. By the far window with his back turned to Jehan, Grantaire was pounding at a punching bag. His hands were bare, and he had abandoned all posture to beat at it in anger, not precision. He paused a moment to take a drink from a mostly-empty bottle, and Jehan could see his eyes were puffy and red. Grantaire finished off the wine with a shuddering sigh, tossing the bottle onto the couch, and again took up his task. Jehan watched a while longer; Grantaire did not slow. Though running only on worry, alcohol, and a lack of sleep, his endurance held even as the first colours of dawn tinted the sky beyond the window. Jehan tried to swallow their guilt as they backed into the bedroom again, shutting the door silently behind them. They returned to the bed, letting the thumping rhythm ease them to sleep again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More plotty things in the next chapter I promise!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A reunion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for drug mentions.

Bahorel had left Jehan’s spare key hidden in the soil of the massive pot of English ivy he had clearly dragged from Jehan’s bedroom into the hallway outside the front door. As they entered their apartment, Jehan couldn’t help but smile at the Post-It note that greeted them: “I SHOULD HAVE PICKED A LIGHTER PLANT!!!!” It was not the only note Bahorel had left. A pile of books left in the living room sported one that read, “I’M COMING BACK FOR THESE!!!”. Another on their bathroom mirror said, “I USED UR SHAMPOO ON MY BEARD AND I’VE NEVER FELT SO BEAUTIFUL!!!” In the kitchen, beside half a sponge cake, a final note gave Jehan a pang of guilt. “I STRESS BAKED AND THEN STRESS ATE. I HOPE U COME HOME SOON. P.S. UR OUT OF EGGS.” 

Jehan turned away from the cake. Despite not having had a full meal in over 24 hours, their stomach was still turning too much to swallow much more than the coffee and toast Grantaire had fed them that morning. 

The desire to simply crawl into bed and pull the covers over their head was tempting, but Jehan forced themself into the shower instead, washing off the sweat of too many nightmares. Despite the early afternoon sunlight streaming in, and the sound of traffic coming from the open window, Jehan felt the enclosed space weighing on them, and they threw open the shower curtain, letting the strong pressure speckle the bathroom with water. It helped just long enough for them to rinse the shampoo from their hair, and they quickly shut off the tap. Wrapping a towel around themself, they ignored the wet trail they left behind them and went to double check the lock on the front door. _Paranoid,_ a voice in their head chided, but the relief that came with the action overpowered it. Jehan dressed quickly, folding the clothes Grantaire had lent them into a neat pile. They then picked up the plastic bag that held the yellow sundress they had been wearing the day before. The cheerful flower pattern was rumpled, showing the signs of rough use Jehan felt so deeply in their own skin. They tied the bag closed and threw it in the trash can. 

As their nervous energy began to give way to the exhaustion that still felt bone-deep, Jehan curled into an overstuffed chair and pulled their computer onto their lap. They immediately found themself bombarded with several hundred messages from Les Amis’ group thread, most of them from the day before, most of them about Jehan. Jehan scrolled past many of these, the guilt turning in their chest as their friends worried over them. Grantaire’s message about Jehan showing up was followed by immense relief within the group. The explanation Grantaire had given for their disappearance was a watered-down version of what Jehan had told him, focusing on Jehan being hurt rather than what had happened after it. It was hard to lie to their friends, harder still that Jehan knew they were all smart enough to sense there was more to the story, but stronger than the guilt was the determination to keep them safe at all costs. They couldn’t drag anyone else into the glimpse of the world they were not meant to see. 

Reading through the fear of their closest friends took more of a toll on them than they expected, and they exited the window without sending any updates. _Later,_ they told themself. _Too much at once._ Jehan opened Facebook, clicking through photos from the protest, watching the deterioration of the event happen in frozen frames. They weren’t thinking, not really, when they clicked on the search bar, but caught themself as they started to type. _Montparnasse_. What were they hoping to find? What did they have to gain? It was a mistake to go looking, to fuel the flame of fear and confusion as they continued to struggle to put together the pieces of the night before. But even as those mental wounds opened and pulsed when they let themself fall into their head, one detail felt solid in the turmoil. All cheekbones and sharp angles, Montparnasse’s intensity had a grounding effect Jehan couldn’t easily shake. They took a deep breath and hit Enter. 

Nothing.

Pages for the cemetery, the train station, various restaurants. They clicked the People section, and found nothing but a handful of profiles with the surname, none of them the Montparnasse Jehan was looking for. They closed the laptop. It was stupid. They had seen Montparnasse kill a man as easy as breathing in a way that suggested intense familiarity with the act. He was clearly engaged with a gang of some sort, and though he didn’t sport a mask like his companion, Jehan doubted he would want to run the risk of recognition through something as obvious as Facebook. In all likelihood, Jehan would never see him again. He would fade into the background of memories they would try to push away. Maybe he would make his way into their poetry, somewhere between Grim Reaper and guardian angel, but the flesh and blood young man was gone, they told themself. It was what he had wanted of them, a promise they were determined to keep. It echoed through their head like a mantra. _Let him go. Let him go._

 

 

“I kick him in the face!”

“Gav, it’s not your turn,” Grantaire said as Gavroche reached for his dice. “Bo, you go.”

“Well _I_ roll to kick him in the face then,” said Bossuet. “And…oh. Critical fail.” 

“You swing your leg to kick the ash zombie in the face, but you suuuuper miss. Like, you kick yourself, lose your balance and fall flat on your back. Dude, you need some health points asap.”

“Take your dice back, Joly,” Bossuet grumbled. “They’re cursed too.”

“They work fine for me!” Joly said, but kissed Bossuet’s cheek. “Don’t worry, I’ll heal you on my next turn.” 

Jehan grinned at their friends, the anxiety of the last few weeks forgotten if only for a moment. The ragtag group of adventurers in their game of Dungeons and Dragons offered Jehan something of a respite from the shadow that had followed them since they had left the warehouse with Montparnasse. After one sleepless night in their own bed, jumping at every creak in the old building, they had returned to Grantaire’s apartment, taking comfort in the support of their friend. The space was small and cramped, but the close quarters meant every inch was familiar and devoid of hiding places for Jehan’s demons. 

It was, however, too small to host all five of them on an extended quest. Today, they met at Éponine's apartment, spread out in the living room that doubled as Gavroche’s bedroom. Éponine herself had left for work soon after they arrived, teasingly claiming that the essence of geek in the air was too much for her to stand. Now, hours later, their marathon of an adventure was still going strong when Jehan heard the front door open behind them. 

“Oh my God, you’re still here?” Éponine said in mock distain, but Jehan could hear the smile in her words. 

“We’re super close to getting a dragon’s hoard!” Gavroche informed her. “We’re gonna get all dem dollaz.”

“Of course, enough fantasy dollars and you’re set for life,” said another voice from the doorway. 

“Get wrecked, ‘Parnasse,” Gavroche shot back. 

Jehan froze. 

No one else seemed to notice that all the air had left the room. Like a string tied firmly to their pounding heart, the pull to turn was too great to resist. There, leaning casually in the doorframe, was Montparnasse. Like when they had first met, he was dressed in nothing but black, offsetting his pale skin. As they took him in, Jehan watched his neutral expression turn into something stricken as he stared back at them. Jehan’s breath came back in a sharp surge, and in that time Montparnasse managed to school his face back into something aloof. From only a few feet away, Jehan heard him mutter to Éponine that he was going to go have a smoke, and disappeared out the door. 

Jehan didn’t give themself time to pause. They sprang to their feet, murmured to Grantaire that they would be right back, and went to follow the man out. 

“Jehan! We’re in the middle of a battle!” Gavroche called from behind them, but they didn’t stop to explain themself. Leaving their shoes behind, they moved quickly over the stained, rough carpet of the outside landing. Montparnasse had already vanished down the stairs, and Jehan descended them two at a time, stopping only when they reached the door to the street. Part of them warned to keep away from the killer who had saved their life. That he was dangerous, that Jehan had been lucky to be let go the first time. But stronger than that was the ache to know more about the event they had been reliving the past two weeks. With most of their friends in the dark about what had really happened, and Grantaire respectfully avoiding the topic, Jehan had kept silent about their abduction though it had churned in them to the point of exploding. If there was one person who would understand-

They pushed open the door.

Montparnasse leaned against the brick wall, a cigarette smouldering in his hand, his face turned upwards at the darkening sky. Jehan approached him slowly, words caught in their throat.

“This is a surprise,” Montparnasse said, his gaze still upturned. 

“I didn’t think I would ever see you again,” Jehan said quietly, shyness creeping over them. 

“That probably would have been for the best.” Montparnasse took a drag, lingering on the exhale, smoke dancing over his lips. “This is just a coincidence, I think.” 

Jehan nodded. “I’ve known Éponine and Gavroche for a few years now. Um. Through Marius?” 

“Pontmercy,” Montparnasse scoffed, but turned at last to face Jehan. “I grew up with ‘Ponine.”

Knowing the vague details of Éponine's parents and the childhood she had worked so hard to keep her brother from repeating, it was no surprise to Jehan to know Montparnasse had come from a similar environment. 

“She knows, by the way,” he continued. “About my work. Well, she doesn’t want to hear the details, but you don’t have to worry about…protecting her from me.” He said it casually, though there was the edge of a warning in his voice. 

“I wasn’t - I don’t know if it’s possible to tell Éponine what to do anyway.” 

Montparnasse smirked at that, but it dropped off quickly as he considered Jehan. “I suppose you didn’t just want to chat about mutual friends.”

Jehan shook their head. “I- the last two weeks have been-” Hard. Terrifying. Confusing. Too many feelings to sum up in a few words. Jehan pushed on. “I wanted to know more. About what happened. About the man who…And you.” 

Montparnasse leaned back again against the wall, shutting his eyes. Slowly, silently, he finished his cigarette and ground the butt under his shoe without looking. The silence stretched. Jehan began to think that maybe he would not answer, that this was a dismissal, when Montparnasse spoke. 

“I told you I’m part of a gang called Patron-Minette. Among other things, we move a lot of drugs, distribute them among other gangs who bring in a profit for us. Lemieux - the man who took you - was part of the Carbone gang. Small-time criminals who think they’re hot shit. They owed us, had owed us for a long time. Kept making excuses. So ‘Sous and I were going to collect. It was supposed to be their last warning. We weren’t expecting you, though. No more warning.” Montpanasse’s lip quirked. “We burned that shithole down, after we got rid of him. But it sent them running. Carbone’s people have all disappeared, with our product and our money. We’re dealing with it.”

Jehan’s head spun. Montparnasse spoke with such blunt detail about an underworld Jehan hadn’t known a thing about. But despite the weight of the words, something like relief was 

forming in their chest. 

“Will they come for me?” they asked, their voice small. 

Montparnasse met their eye. “I don’t think so. You were a bartering chip, not something personal. I’m not even sure anyone but Lemieux saw you anyway.”

Jehan let out a shaky breath, blinking hard to keep back the tears prickling their eyes. They sniffed, and looked up at Montparnasse. 

“Thank you. For telling me, for saving me. I didn’t think- I didn’t expect to survive that night.”  
Montparnasse waved it away, discomfort creasing his brow. “Look, just take care of yourself, okay? And stay away from Patron-Minette. Nothing good can come from associating with us.”

“But if Éponine-”

“This was an accident. It won’t happen again. Take this as a warning.” Montparnasse’s voice had gotten low, intimidation rolling off him. He glanced up. “Tell Éponine I had somewhere to be,” he said, and turned. Jehan didn’t say another word as they watched him stalk off like a living shadow until the dark street swallowed him up.

 

 

Despite the shock of finding themself face to face with Montparnasse again, the man’s words had stirred up the bravery in Jehan. They returned to Grantaire’s apartment with him only to pick up the things they had left there, and walked the few blocks home. As they shut their door, Jehan stood a moment in the dark hallway, collecting their fears to acknowledge and dispel them. They turned on the light, turning their attention to the pile of mail at their feet. Flyers and bills made up the bulk, but as they leafed through, a larger envelope stuck out to them. It was unmarked, neither address nor intended recipient printed on its side. More junk, they supposed, but curiosity compelled them to open it. 

There were photographs inside. Jehan, sprawled in the back of a car. Jehan, unconscious and bound on a concrete floor. Jehan, in a smiling picture from their Facebook account. And finally, a photocopied image of their ID card, their birthday and their address printed on it clearly.

Whoever had abducted Jehan had found them again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So anyway I'm obsessed with D&D??
> 
> Hit me up on tumblr @ feyland


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for gun violence and mentions of Jehan's trauma

Numbness overtook Jehan. The heart-pounding fear that had accompanied them for weeks after their abduction was strangely absent as they took one step and then another into their apartment. They felt like they were underwater, the movement difficult and slow. They left the lights off, letting the last tendrils of sunset lead them through the space as they took in every inch until they were certain there was nobody lying in wait for them. Jehan sank into an armchair in the dark living room keeping the front door squarely in their line of sight. They pulled out their phone, brand new to replace the one lost on the day of the protest. Though the air around them still felt thick and restricting, their hands trembled freely. Slowly, they typed out a message.

 

**Jehan** : Would you be able to give me Montparnasse’s phone number?

**Éponine** : ;) ;) ;) ooooooohh. was wondering what that was all about

**Jehan** : It’s not like that - I just need to talk to him

**Éponine** : uh huh sure. be careful tho he's a heartbreaker

 

Something about Éponine’s warning gnawed at Jehan, but they pushed it away as they copied the string of numbers Éponine sent them.

 

**Éponine** : but seriously montparnasse is into some shady shit so actually do be careful

**Jehan** : Thanks, ’Ponine. I will. xo

 

Strangely, only then did Jehan begin to feel a fast pulse in their throat. They swallowed hard, desperate to keep the tremors out of their voice, and called the number.

It rang four times, four times Jehan willed themself not to hang up, part of them scared he would answer, the other part terrified he would not.

 

“Who is this?” The voice was low and smooth and filled with obvious distrust.

“Jehan.”

“Well. It didn’t take you long to disregard the warning I gave you.”

“It didn’t take long for those people to find me, despite what you told me.”

There was silence for a moment on the other end. Then:

“Where are you?”

“At home. They had my wallet. My ID, my address- They know where I live. I think they’re going to come back for me.”

Montparnasse cursed, though it sounded muted as though he had pulled away from the phone. Jehan heard a thump and sounds of movement a moment before Montparnasse spoke again. The smooth coolness of his voice was gone, replaced with something heated.

“Is there anyone watching your building?”

The spark sent Jehan out of their chair towards the window. Trying to keep low and out of sight, they peeked out from behind a patchwork curtain. The narrow side street was nearly deserted. An older woman shuffled up to a neighbouring doorway and disappeared inside, and a couple made their way around the corner without a glance Jehan’s way. A single car sat in the road, idling. Jehan tried to remember if it had been their since they had returned home, but couldn’t picture the scene.

“There’s a man in a car,” they said to Montparnasse, low as though the driver might hear. “He’s just sitting there with the engine on.”

“What does he look like?”

Jehan squinted. “White. Bald, I think. I can’t tell how old he is. He’s wearing sunglasses.” As they spoke, the man’s face turned upwards, directly towards Jehan’s window. They ducked away from the glass, sliding onto the floor. “I think he’s watching the apartment.”

More sounds of movement came from Montparnasse’s end, and Jehan jumped at the sound of a slamming door.

“I’m coming to get you. Get ready to leave. I’ll text you what you have to do. What’s your address?”

Jehan told him as they snatched up the bag they had brought to Grantaire’s and readied themself by the door. Montparnasse hung up with a promise.

“I’ll be there soon.”

As the call ended, Jehan stood in the dark, their ears straining to catch anything beyond their shallow breathing. The photos lay where Jehan had dropped them by the doorway, and they stared down at the limp form they showed. Anger washed into the river of fear that they had carried for nearly a month. Jehan was still not entirely sure why Montparnasse was willing to help them, but his method of dealing with Jehan’s captor gave them a grim sense of satisfaction. Perhaps it was the Carbone gang that should be afraid.

The screen of Jehan’s phone lit up the dark hallway with Montparnasse’s instructions.

 

**Montparnasse** : Get out of your building. Ignore the car. Walk in the opposite direction. I’ll meet you one street over.

 

Blood was rushing in their ears as Jehan left their apartment and locked the door. Maybe the action was useless against a gang member bent on getting in, but the security of the small click was ever so slightly comforting. Jehan descended the stairs and stepped out into the night. They could see the car on their left in their periphery, and turned to the right, setting a brisk pace while trying to look natural. From behind them, they could hear the car drive off down the one-way street. He was circling back, Jehan realized, and as the car turned the corner, Jehan began to sprint. Skidding around the last building on the block, Jehan frantically searched for Montparnasse’s car. There was only one idling on the next street, different from the one Jehan had previously ridden in, but Montparnasse was framed in the driver’s side window. Jehan raced towards it just as the other car turned on to the street and sped towards them. Jehan was reaching for the passenger side door handle when a crack filled the air and the wind whistled in their ear as something sped by them. They wrenched open the door and fell into the seat as another bullet passed through the spot they had just been standing. Montparnasse hit the gas before Jehan had managed to shut the door, and a third shot caught the edge of it, sending tremors through Jehan’s arm. The metal was distorted but the door clicked shut as they sped through the dark streets. A final shot rang out, but Jehan neither felt nor heard anything that indicated the car had been hit again.

“Idiot,” muttered Montparnasse as he twisted the wheel sharply, easily maneuvering the narrow streets as they raced to escape their pursuer. Jehan had twisted themself around, peering back to watch from their unwelcome shadow, even as they joined other vehicles on larger roads heading north.

“I don’t think he’s following us,” said Montparnasse, his voice far too calm compared to the adrenaline pumping through Jehan. “If his job was to just pick you up, I don’t think he was ready for me to be there.”

Jehan did not respond but slowly turned back around, leaned into their seat, and shut their eyes.

“You’re a bit of a magnet for trouble, aren’t you?” Montparnasse continued. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to get mixed up with the wrong crowd?”

Despite themself, Jehan fought the edge of a smile. “I think the wrong crowd is doing its best to get mixed up with me,” they said, proud of the steadiness of their voice. 

“Well, as a member of the wrong crowd, I know that something as shiny as you is going to attract a few magpies.”

Jehan opened their eyes at this and glanced at Montparnasse. He kept his gaze firmly on the road, but he pursed his lips as if to silence them.

“Where are we going?” they asked.

“A safe house.”

A million questions sprang into Jehan’s head, but they pushed most of them down, opting for the only thing they needed desperately to know.

“What’s going to happen to me?”

Montparnasse did not respond immediately, crafting some kind of reply that could satisfy the type of unpredictability of the situation.

“Carbone’s people are after you because they think you have some association with us. Which, I guess now you do. So now it’s our responsibility to keep you safe until their gang is…dealt with.” He looked sideways at Jehan. “You can’t go home. Not until it’s all sorted. You’re probably going to have to make some sort of excuse for your work, and, ah, your friends.” Montparnasse looked uncomfortable. “I don’t know how to keep you safe otherwise. I don’t want you to feel like you’re being imprisoned but…you won’t be able to leave.”

Understanding hit Jehan hard in the gut. Held in a strange place by a dangerous gang - they suddenly felt sick and they shut their eyes again as they attempted to control their breathing. Instinct screamed at them that every second spent with Montparnasse was a potential for pain and death. But- Montparnasse and his partner had killed a man for offering up a bound and beaten Jehan as a sick sort of payment. If nothing else, Jehan was certain they would not attempt the same kind of cruelty.

They nodded at last, and Montparnasse let the conversation drop off. They drove in silence, eventually pulling up to the curb in the 18th arrondissement. Jehan followed Montparnasse out of the car, and he moved quickly down the road. On one side, grey buildings loomed, all peeling paint and weathered brick. On the other, a dozen train tracks cut through the city like scars. The last building before the street dead-ended was a squat two stories, a boarded-up storefront covered in graffiti taking up the main floor. Montparnasse unlocked the door to the second level and lead Jehan up the stairs without a word.

The apartment at the top matched the exterior. Grey walls, devoid of paint or hangings ended in a low ceiling. The light Montparnasse flicked on was dim, keeping the stains on the wood floor from closer inspection, but did a fine job of illuminating the thin layer of dust on every surface that told Jehan this was no one’s permanent residence. A few closed doors stood off the main hallway, and Montparnasse opened one, gesturing Jehan in.

“You can stay in here. It’s not much but it’s nicer than the other rooms.”

A sunken double bed, a dresser, and a bare lightbulb was all there was in the small room. A dark curtain was pulled across the tiny window.

“Thank you,” said Jehan softly, unsure of what to say beyond that.

Montparnasse didn’t seem to expect more. “I’m going to get some food,” he said. “No one has stayed here in a while.”

Jehan nodded, not meeting his eye, and waited for him to go. They listened to the click of the lock and the quiet sound of Montparnasse disappearing into the night. Tears threatened to fall as Jehan curled up on the mattress, shutting their eyes, and willing their brain stop. Outside, a train rumbled past. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorryyyy for updating so late ya gal got slammed @ work
> 
> Find me at feyland on tumblr.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for threats of violence, queerphobic slurs, & alcohol

Jehan woke in a daze with a stiffness of their neck and an uncomfortable lack of recognition of their surroundings. The jolt of half-awake panic revived them further, and their eyes swept the room, taking in almost nothing in the blackness. A dark shape at the end of the mattress did catch their attention, and they cautiously reached out to prod at it. It was soft, and Jehan let out their breath as they felt through a small pile of blankets and a single pillow. Someone - Montparnasse, most likely - had left them while Jehan slept. He must have also turned off the light, Jehan realized, as they had willed themself into sleep fully clothed with the bare lightbulb still illuminated. 

The all-encompassing darkness around them indicated that it was still sometime before dawn, but Jehan could not tell what time it was until they fumbled for their bag and their phone therein. 5:16 am. Exhaustion born of anxiety and the early hour crowded Jehan’s mind, and they had nearly managed to untangle a worn blanket in the dark when they heard voices. Low and unintelligible, Jehan nevertheless leaned towards the wall. One voice they quickly identified as belonging to Montparnasse, but straining could not make out what he said to the unknown other person. Slowly, Jehan eased themself out of bed and towards the bedroom door. Hardly daring to breathe, Jehan turned the knob as softly as they could, waiting for the old hinges to give them away, but silently the door opened just enough for Jehan to slip through. Light from the next room spilled over into the narrow hallway, and Jehan moved towards it, finally able to hear the words coming from the two men on the other side of the wall. 

“It’s not like they have anywhere else to go,” Montparnasse was saying. “They can’t go around telling their friends what’s happened to them. Unless you wanted-”

“Anyone who can’t find a way to lie low isn’t smart enough to justify risking the gang like this.” Montparnasse’s companion’s voice was cold and flat, and his words stung Jehan as they realized the two were talking about them.

“Not everyone is as fucking paranoid as you,” Montparnasse shot back. “They don’t know what they’re looking out for.”

“So you’ve decided to become their watch dog? Your sentimentality is going to drown you, ’Parnasse. What if they think they can strike a better deal with Carbone? Or the police?”

“They feel indebted to us for killing Carbone’s goon.” 

“So they say. Until they get tired of being holed up in this dump. Until they decide their comfort is worth giving us up. Do you have any long-term plans, Montparnasse? What do you think is going to happen?”

“I don’t know,” Montparnasse said, the fight leaking out of his voice until he just sounded tired. Jehan leaned in closer to the doorway to make out his quieted words. As they moved, a floor board creaked underfoot and they froze, holding their breath, but Montparnasse just continued.

“Look, we need to deal with Carbone anyway. I just…want to keep them out of the way until it’s done. You saw what that fucker did to them, what he was planning on doing to them. So we keep them here, safe, and keep them in the dark as much as possible.”

“A little late for that, I think,” said the other man, and impossibly quickly, the voice was in Jehan’s ear. “It’s rude to eavesdrop, know you.”

Jehan started so badly that they stumbled back across the hall, suddenly visible in the illuminated doorway of the kitchen where Montparnasse sat with his mouth open in surprise. Across the table from him, having not moved from his seat, was the man Jehan had seen the warehouse with Montparnasse. 

“Hello, Jehan Prouvaire,” he said, his voice coming not from his mouth but some feet above the small table. 

“I hate when you do that,” Montparnasse said as he regained his composure, avoiding Jehan’s eye as he glared at his companion. 

“Infinitely useful, though,” he replied, his voice returning to his throat. He wore nothing covering his face this time, but Jehan could read nothing on the blank mask of the man’s features. He watched unblinking as Jehan took a hesitant step into the room, despite their instinct to flee from the predator's eyes. He was certainly older than Montparnasse, but the smooth dark skin betrayed no evidence of aging. The intensity of his gaze coupled with the unsettling ventriloquy rocked against Jehan’s nerves, but they tried not to let it show as they stood in the doorway. 

“Sit,” the man said to Jehan, the lazy casualty of his voice turning cold again as he nodded to the empty seat at the table.

Jehan complied.

“This is Claquesous,” said Montparnasse to Jehan once they were seated. “He was…there, that night.”

“I remember,” said Jehan quietly.

“Unfortunate,” said Claquesous, “considering you know infinitely too much already.”

Jehan’s mouth was dry, but a protest bubbled up nonetheless. “Please. I know I’m a liability to you. I didn’t mean to be. I didn’t know who else to call other than the police and-”

“Shut up,” said Claquesous, icily. “I don’t trust you, and so I trust nothing coming out of your mouth.”

Jehan swallowed the rest of their protestation and looked away. To their right, Montparnasse drummed his long fingers against the table, still avoiding Jehan's glance as Claquesous continued.

“You saw something you weren’t meant to see, and Montparnasse here was kind enough to offer up additional details of our work. That puts you in a particularly dangerous place. Maybe Montparnasse made it sound as though Patron-Minette was willing to take up arms for you, but do not misunderstand. If you take a single step out of line, I will personally make you wish Carbone’s people had gotten their hands on you first. You are not going to be a problem for us just because Montparnasse likes pretty things.”

Montparnasse made a sound of protest, and Jehan flushed. The heat of embarrassment mixed with their fear, making them feel very small. Underneath that, though, something like anger was simmering on the heat source of Claquesous’ words. 

“So here is what is going to happen, Jehan Prouvaire,” he said. “Montparnasse has brought you here, and will not leave this apartment until Carbone isn’t a threat to us anymore. After that, you will have a single chance to forget everything you ever knew about Patron-Minette. Should it get back to us that you have so much as breathed a name to anyone, we will kill you.”

Claquesous said it plainly, in the same cold voice, and Jehan believed him. They remembered the detached, emotionless ease in which the two men at the table had murdered someone right in front of them. And yet, in the small hours before dawn, with sleep still circling their head, Jehan found some of the intensity lost on them. For nearly a month, spikes of panic and raw dreams had kept them on edge, heightened always by the paranoia of dark figures shadowing them even in the brightest and busiest of places. Simply, Jehan was tired - tired of fear and threats and worry. They were tired of men holding them back while dangling safety just out of reach. 

“You know,” they said calmly, turning to look Claquesous directly in the eye, “you’re not the first person to threaten my life. When I was twelve, a stranger on the Métro told me faggots like me should be shot, and that he would be happy to do the honours. I like to think that every time since then is an improvement. I’ll do whatever you tell me to, because I do actually have some sense of self-preservation, but also because no one has ever managed to follow through with their threats, and I would like to maintain my record.”

Something like a muffled cough came from Montparnasse’s direction, and when Jehan glanced over, he was wearing a poorly-disguised smirk. Claquesous said nothing for a moment, but then smiled without humour. Slowly, he pushed back his chair. Despite their bravado, Jehan’s heart leapt to their throat. Claquesous stood over them, his eyes fixed on Jehan who gazed defiantly back, and reached into the pocket of his long black jacket. It took everything Jehan had not to flinch as he pulled something out, but their relief was quick when they realized it was only a pair of leather gloves.

“You be careful, Jehan Prouvaire,” he said as he slipped them on. He glanced at Montparnasse and nodded once. Montparnasse lifted a single eyebrow in return, and then Claquesous was gone. Despite the old wood floor that had given Jehan away, it was only the click of the front door that indicated Claquesous had melted into the night. When Jehan looked over, Montparnasse was watching them.

“He seems nice,” they said casually.

Montparnasse snorted. “And he calls me a drama queen.”

Jehan smiled at that, and ducked their head to let their loose hair hide the uncertainty on their face. There was a moment of silence before Montparnasse stood suddenly and moved towards the kitchen counter. He pulled a bottle of wine out of a paper bag that sat there, uncorking it quickly with a Swiss Army Knife that disappeared just as fast as it emerged. He returned to the table with the bottle and a set of mismatched coffee cups. After pouring out two generous portions, he slid one over to Jehan. Red liquid sloshed over the brim and onto their hand. Without thinking, Jehan brought their fingers to their mouth, not realizing until the stray drops had been licked clean that Montparnasse was watching them. Blood pooled in their cheeks, but they noticed a similar flush across Montparnasse’s high cheekbones. It made his handsome face softer, younger. Without Claquesous, or the imminent threat of another gang coming after them, the boyish features and the wine slowly began to settle Jehan’s fluttering worries. They pushed away the thoughts that would surely return again in the morning, but for the time being Jehan focused on the moment. They had nothing really to say, and Montparnasse did not press them for conversation. Instead, the two slowly worked their way through the bottle until dawn chased away the the spell the night had cast. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for being terrible at updating consistently, and for those updates being relatively short. Also I'm gonna be off in the Canadian wilderness for the next week which means I might actually get some writing done instead of always being exhausted from working so much??? Who knows~~~
> 
> hmu on tumblr @ feyland


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings for this chapter: Misgendering, acts of violence, threats of further violence, and drugs.

“There’s coffee,” Montparnasse had said before he left. The pale dawn light had illuminated the dark circles under his eyes, and the unfocused gaze that followed too much wine. 

Jehan could feel the same result in themself as they all but dozed at the table. An ocean of uncertainty still rolled inside them, but for the moment it was covered by a thick blanket of fog. Something about the morning light had chased away the threats and fears of the night before. The wine, too, had surely helped. 

Jehan listened to Montparnasse’s footsteps descending the stairs, the click of the door the last thing they heard before the small flat was empty and silent again. Slowly, swaying slightly, they rose to look through the paper grocery bags for the promised coffee. A battered old coffee maker sat unplugged on the counter, but it sputtered to life when Jehan turned it on. As they waited for it to brew, they went through the rest of what Montparnasse had brought. Bread, eggs, butter, apples - basics that Jehan soon found to be the only edible things in the little kitchen. The refrigerator was empty but thankfully still cold, and Jehan deposited most of their rations into it. In the cupboards, they found a few chipped plates and mugs, a bag of sugar that had hardened into one large brick, and an ancient jar of peanut butter they elected not to open. 

Coffee in hand, Jehan glanced around the kitchen again before continuing on to explore the flat. Besides their own room, two other small bedrooms opened off the main hallway. Both had nothing but a single bed and a plain side table in them; one didn’t even have a window. The bathroom was equally sparse, a naked lightbulb showing off a dingy shower, sink, and toilet. Across from the kitchen was a cramped living room, which was the most decorated space in the apartment. A long sofa and two thickly stuffed chairs were set up around a worn coffee table, an ashtray acting as the decorative centrepiece. A set of thin curtains hung over the window, and Jehan pulled them back, brushing away the cobwebs that clung to them. Outside, they could see the train tracks they had noticed the night before. As they watched, a cargo train lumbered down the line, rattling the windowpanes as it went by, whistling shrilly. 

Sinking down into one of the armchairs, Jehan held their coffee cup to their sternum, letting the heat seep into their body. Shutting their eyes, they made themself breathe as they listed in their head what they needed to do. Contact their friends - make some excuse for their sudden absence. Call in to work with a similar reason. Rent was due too - they could pay that from their phone. Other than that, though… Their father wouldn’t be bothered to check in with them until their birthday a few months away, and their mother- they had come to expect even less of her. Although…

Jehan pulled out their phone and typed a quick message into the Les Amis group chat.

 

**Jehan** : My mum is back in the country! Going down to Nice on an impromptu trip to see her. Love u all ~

 

Jehan’s mother was in fact still Eat-Pray-Loving her way through India. Or possibly Nepal. Wherever it is that white women with too much money and a desire for appropriated spirituality go to “find themselves”. But the woman from whom Jehan had inherited an eclectic spirit was a solid alibi for a sudden disappearance. 

Their work, however, was something of a different story.

“I mean, it’s sort of super inconvenient,” their manager Michelle said when Jehan called. “Like, you should have booked the time off in advance.” 

“Her death was very sudden,” Jehan said, wincing at the lie, hoping the cosmic scale would not take the deceit out on their still very much alive grandmother.

“Well, can you at least tell me how long you’ll be gone?” Michelle asked, her annoyance leaving no room for sympathy for Jehan’s supposed loss. 

“I can’t. I’m sorry. There’s a lot to be done about her house and her will on top of the funeral. I’ll let you know as soon as I have a better idea,” they said.

“I mean, yeah, but like I’m going to have to take you off the schedule. We’ll have to see if there’s still a spot for you when you get back.”

Jehan’s heart sank, but they thanked Michelle and hung up, sighing deeply at the prospect of trying to find a new job once they were able to go home. Despite the coldness of their manager, Jehan would miss their work as a tour guide in the Catacombs, a tourist attraction that had always been something of a guilty pleasure for them.

With nothing left to do, Jehan wandered back into their little room, contemplating curling up in a nest of blankets, but the caffeine in their system protested. Instead, they dug through their bag for their journal, a novel they had just started, and a fresh pair of underwear. With no towels to be found, Jehan elected to skip a shower, but brushed their teeth and did their best to comb their tangled hair into something they could manage to braid. They paused when they pulled out the pill bottle of anti-depressants, vaguely worried that only two days worth rattled around the near-empty container. Perhaps something they could ask Montparnasse about. But then, perhaps not. 

Jehan returned to the living room, drawing their knees up to their chest as they settled in with their book. Somewhere between the death of the protagonist’s family, and his acceptance into a magical institute, Jehan began to doze. At some point, the thick book fell to the ground, unnoticed by its reader as they gave in to the pull of the sleepless night previous. It wasn’t until hours later when the creeping turn of the planet angled sunlight into their eyes did they finally blink awake. The last rays of late afternoon were turning to dusk, and Jehan was trying to rub feeling back into their legs when the sound of feet on the stairs cut through the sleepy silence. 

The apartment door burst open with an amount of force that immediately set Jehan on edge. They had expected Montparnasse, maybe Claquesous, but the loud voices that suddenly filled the small flat were unfamiliar and threatening. Instinctually, Jehan leapt to their feet, snatching up their phone, eyes raking the room for a place to hide. None of the sparse furnishings offered any obvious safety, and so Jehan flattened themself against the wall by the doorway to the hall, praying the intruders would not see them, at least until they could decide what to do. The voices neared, accompanied by heavy footsteps, loud despite the blood rushing in Jehan’s ears.

“I swear to God I’ll be the one to put a bullet through the forehead of that fucker. That piece-of-shit-son-of-a-bitch-motherfucker,” one voice snarled, his tone wild and imbalanced. The light from the kitchen across the hall went on, quickly followed by the crash of shattering glass. 

“Easy. We we will move out against them soon. Hit them harder,” the second voice said, calmer but deep, and in an accent Jehan couldn’t place through the terror pounding through their head. The distinct smell of something burnt wafted into the quickly darkening living room. 

“Goddamn it all. This is what I managed to get out,” the first voice said again. “I’m going to pull out a goddamn tooth for every gram we lost.” 

The second voice murmured something in response, quiet enough that Jehan couldn’t catch it. Cautiously, they inched towards the doorway, wondering if they could slip down the hallway unnoticed. Even if they could just squeeze under their bed, it would give them enough time to text Montparnasse. Peering out, Jehan could see two men in the kitchen, bent over the table that supported a large clear sealed bag of white powder. Whatever drug it was didn’t interest Jehan, but it did hold the attention of the strangers who kept their backs turned as Jehan slid around the corner, not daring to breathe. They kept the men in their sight as they backed down the hall, their heart thundering in their chest.

Whether it was that pounding, the shift of air in the tiny flat, or just a case of unlucky timing, one of the men suddenly straightened up to his full, massive height, and turned. Surprise read across his wide face before falling into a snarl. Nearly frozen in fear, Jehan managed only a single step further before the behemoth of a man reached them in two long strides. A thick, meaty hand wrapped around their throat while another slammed into their shoulder, pining them to the wall in a single violent motion. Their head smacked loudly against it, and their vision grew warped and blurry as tears started running down their face. Both men were yelling, incomprehensible to Jehan, the big man spraying their face with spittle. A sob tried to break free of their throat, and they choked on the effort. 

“ARE YOU CARBONE’S BITCH?” roared the man restraining them. “ANSWER ME.”

Jehan felt the hand at their throat jerk up, and they were pulled off the ground as if they weighed little more than a rag doll. Their animal instinct went from frozen to a fight for survival, and they clawed at the hand, trying to find release. 

The second man was advancing on them as well, flipping open a dangerous-looking knife, as sharp as the gaze in which he held Jehan. 

“We’ll get her to talk,” he said, his narrow face twisting into a hard smile. “It would be my pleasure to gut you after what you fuckers did today.” 

Jehan kicked out against the man holding them, but despite the blow landing, he didn’t react other than to give Jehan a hard shake that rattled them, steering them towards unconsciousness as the lack of oxygen began to turn their world dark. 

The second man reached up a gloved hand and put the dull side of the knife against Jehan’s cheek. 

“Careful,” he hissed, and flipped it so the point scrapped against the skin. 

In that moment, without even enough breath to sob, Jehan did not notice the front door at the end of the hall swing open. Their head was too cloudy to process the newcomer even as he roared, “GUEULEMER! DROP THEM!”

Jehan fell to the floor, crumpling into a coughing, gasping, sobbing pile. Each breath they took burned going down, and they pushed them out again in low cries and whimpers. Heated words were being exchanged above them, but despite the part of them that still screamed to get away, they felt paralyzed. Every shudder was an effort beyond their capabilities. 

A hand on their arm was enough to jerk a sharp flinch out of them, but they could manage nothing beyond that but to shake. Even when the familiar angles of Montparnasse’s face came into focus, they couldn’t find a breath to cling to. They felt themself being lifted again, though gently this time, and held close against a thin frame. Montparnasse’s shirt was silk, and the worry they would stain it with their tears pierced Jehan for a split second. He too smelt of smoke - a mixture of fire and cigarettes muddled together in a hazy perfume. 

He carried Jehan to their room, shutting the door behind them with his foot, and gently set them down on the bed. They reached out a hand, not quite sure what they were asking for, but Montparnasse took it, holding it firmly, cradled against his breastbone as he knelt by the bed. Jehan’s sobs continued, broken by weak coughs and hiccups, but Montparnasse did not tire in his offer of comfort. He stroked their hair and watched over them as Jehan struggled against the current of fear and pain as the night closed in around them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: I love Jehan Prouvaire with all my heart I would die for that child  
> Also Me: How can I make them cry in this chapter?
> 
> Heeeeey Patron Minette. Can't wait for this to turn into a sit-com where Jehan turns a shithole into a homey space for their lovable criminal children. 
> 
> Anyone who knows what Jehan is reading gets 10 points (it's not Harry Potter; Orphans Doing Magic is a pretty prolific subgenre???)
> 
> Leave me ur reviews, my homies, or hmu on tumblr @ feyland


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for detailed description of a panic attack, and refs to drugs & arson

The panic did not pass. The stagnant air of the small room encircled Jehan’s head as they fought for breath against the pressure in their chest. Tears fell with no elegance, matching their wild heartbeat in sporadic bursts. Sobs like something from a nightmare left their throat, leaving it ragged. They coughed, as though they could clear away the block in their gut, but the feeling of something trapped and painful did not budge. It was still growing, each breath even harder to snatch, and fear spiked through them again and again, making their heart race and beg for a release that would not come. If they had the capacity to think, Jehan would have thought they were drowning.

Montparnasse was in their periphery still, but like he was back in the reality Jehan had stepped out of. A pressure on their head, their shoulder, their hand- they could tell he was speaking to them, quiet and firmly grounded, but they could not hold the words in their mind. 

And then the murmur and the pressure was gone, and Jehan floated. Curled on their side on the old wool bedspread, they ran their hand over the rough fibres, trying to find purchase. The animal sounds had fallen away from them, and nothing but a small whimper made it past their lips, uneven as it came from their shaking body. 

“Here.” 

The single word was clear enough, though Jehan still struggled to follow it. Montparnasse knelt again beside them, slowly propping them up so that they could drink from the glass of water he had brought them. Jehan sipped it, and choked, their coughing turning again to sobs. Montparnasse was patient, though, and again he held the glass up to Jehan’s lips. They drank, and the water made it down their throat, a victory that provided a pause in their crying, beginning to soothe. 

“Put these under your tongue,” Montparnasse said, holding out two tiny round tablets, bringing them up to Jehan’s face so their shaking hand could manage the journey. “They’re safe, I promise.” 

In their right mind, perhaps, Jehan would have been wary of accepting unlabelled pills in an apartment filled with drug dealers and their products. But Jehan’s right mind had been completely swallowed by fear the second Gueulemer had wrapped his hand around their throat. The tablets were chalky and tasteless, and they dissolved quickly under Jehan’s tongue. Their mouth was dry, but they managed to swallow more of the water without incident, and slowly, a sense of reality began to come back to them. The air around them still felt heavy, and they stayed on their side, Montparnasse’s hands running through their hair in a rhythm to which Jehan matched their breathing. Finally, finally, once the room had found itself once again firmly planted, and the terror in their chest had faded to a dull roar, Jehan pushed themself up slowly on trembling arms. 

“What do you need?” said Montparnasse, his voice low, edged in something Jehan did not have the power to identify. They could not see him well in the dim glow provided by the single streetlight outside the small window, and the vague outline of his face told Jehan nothing. 

“M-my binder,” they managed to rasp out, gesturing vaguely at one corner of the room where they had left their bag. The words burned in their raw throat, and they coughed into their arm, turning their face away as though the darkness were not enough to hide the embarrassment and discomfort they could feel radiating from every pore. They drew their arms in, pressing hard against their chest and the shame therein. Maybe it was foolish to be hung up on the misgendering that had occurred when their very life had been threatened, but the need for something to quiet one of the voices that filled their head was too hard to ignore.

“I don’t want to discourage you, but binders don’t pair particularly well with panic attacks. Just…make sure you can breathe properly first, okay?” 

Jehan looked at Montparnasse, trying to find something mocking in his tone, or in the shadows obscuring his face, but they could feel nothing but sincerity. 

“I say that from experience,” he said quietly, as though reading their uncertainty. “I passed out once because I couldn’t breathe through the compression.”

Jehan nodded slightly, focusing on filling their lungs with air and releasing it in a stumbling rhythm. Montparnasse sat in silence beside them until tears no longer threatened to choke them. The apartment was quiet once the rushing in their ears subsided; if Montparnasse’s associates were still there, Jehan could not hear them. 

“Are they going to hurt me?” they asked, exhaustion overtaking any fear they could have mustered.

Montparnasse let out a breath. “No,” he said, and Jehan could feel the suppressed anger in his voice. “They didn’t know you were here. If they knew who you were, they wouldn’t have touched you. I thought Claquesous had filled them in, but- I’m sorry.”

“Are they still here?”

Montparnasse paused, giving Jehan their answer. “Yes. That’s the thing. What happened today- The reason they’re so on edge- They need to stay here.” He sighed again, and Jehan wondered how much he was suppressing his own exhaustion. “Someone set Babet’s place on fire. They made sure he was inside and blocked the door. He climbed out of a second story window with a backpack full of cocaine.” He snorted. “Idiot. We’re sure it’s Carbone’s doing. He’s targeting us. We need somewhere to lay low. This…is the only safe house we have right now.”

It sounded like something from a movie, and Jehan struggled to process Montparnasse’s words in their still-cloudy head. They had been swept up into this world of murder, drugs, and arson, and they could feel the guilt begin to stain their hands. 

“Introduce me to them,” they said, and immediately felt Montparnasse’s surprise. “If you trust them…I’m tired of being afraid.”

Montparnasse said nothing, but eased off the bed and moved towards the door. 

“I’ll wait in the hallway,” he said, and slipped out. 

Alone in the dark, Jehan tried to shake the persistent fear that still clung to them. Unfolding themself from their curled position, they reached for their bag, and dug through blindly until they felt the familiar fabric of their binder. Even alone, the discomfort of pulling off their shirtstarted to bring tears back into their throat, but they pushed them down as they pulled the binder on. The pressure was comforting, and they held a hand to their heart for a moment, reminding themself to breathe, telling themself they were safe, trying to believe it. 

 

Montparnasse was leaning against the wall across from Jehan’s room as they opened the door. In the light, the creases of worry were clear on his face, and Jehan tried to smile as reassuringly as they could. 

“Ready?” he asked them, and they nodded, not trusting themself to speak in case it came out shaky. 

The living room was illuminated by a single lamp as Jehan and Montparnasse stepped into the doorframe. The two men inside looked up, their expressions a mix of surprise and uncertainty. 

“This is Jehan,” said Montparnasse curtly. “Jehan, these idiots are Gueulemer and Babet. For some reason I’m still associated with them.” 

From his place on the couch, Gueulemer stared at the floor, his hands clasped together like a reprimanded schoolboy. Beside him, Babet chewed on his lip, looking everywhere but Montparnasse’s glower. 

“I’m sorry,” said Gueulemer quietly, lifting his head up to catch Jehan’s eye. His voice was low, devoid of all the rage Jehan had heard before. They gave the smallest nod in acknowledgement, unsure of what to say. 

“I’m going to make this quick before you two have the chance to fuck it up some more,” Montparnasse continued, derision dripping from his voice as he continued to glare at his friends. “Jehan is here to be protected from Carbone. Now the three of us are here to get away from him too. He targeted Babet’s apartment today; his plan is probably to find each of our flats and try to get at us when we’re off our guard. So we lay low here until we’re able to bring him down.”

“What about Claquesous?” Jehan asked. Despite the threats and violence they had experienced from the two men in front of them, the thought of living with Claquesous’ unnerving presence worried at their mind. 

Babet snorted. “If Carbone manages to find whatever cave Sous lives in, then he’s smarter than we thought.”

“If Claquesous doesn’t want to be found, he won’t be,” Montparnasse supplied. “We don’t even know where he lives. Wouldn’t be surprised if he slept in a coffin. Or upside down like a bat.”

Despite themself, Jehan felt a smile pull at their mouth. 

“Are we clear now?” Montparnasse continued. “You fuckers don’t touch Jehan. They’re not working with us; you keep them out of all of that shit. And get their fucking pronouns right.” He turned slightly towards Jehan. “Anything else?” He asked them. 

Jehan shook their head.

“I’ll walk you back to your room, if you want.” Sending a last dark look at Gueulemer and Babet, he stepped back into the hallway, and Jehan turned to follow.

“Wait.” Gueulemer stood up, his head nearly brushing the low ceiling. “Is this yours?” He held out Jehan’s book to them, forgotten in the living room when the men had first arrived. 

“Oh,” they said, and took a tentative step towards Gueulemer. “Thank you.”

“It’s a good book,” he said. “The second one is even better.” 

If Jehan’s face registered the surprise they felt, Gueulemer didn’t seem bothered. “Thank you,” they said again, and quickly ducked out of the room. 

Montparnasse didn’t say anything, but cast a sideways glance at the cover. 

As they reached the bedroom door, Montparnasse stepped to the side to let Jehan in, watching them with something as close to awkwardness as Jehan had seen in him. 

“There aren’t enough rooms,” they blurted out in the same second the thought came to them. 

“I’ll sleep on the couch,” Montparnasse said quickly. “Don’t worry, you can stay in your room.” 

“Oh,” said Jehan, and paused. “You could- My bed is a double. I don’t take up very much room when I sleep. If you wanted to…”

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. After the night you’ve had. After everything.” Montparnasse was blushing, pushing his hands into his pockets, and avoiding Jehan’s eye. 

“After everything, I would feel safer if…if you stayed,” they managed, their voice more confident than they felt.

Montparnasse met their gaze, his dark eyes sending a twinge through Jehan’s chest. “Are you sure?”  
“I’m sure.” They opened the door to the room as though they could more away from the awkward energy in the hall. They grabbed their bag, and slipped across the hall to the bathroom. “I’ll be right back.”

When they returned, their teeth brushed and wearing a clean nightgown, Montparnasse was seated on the edge of the bed. He had changed from his silk shirt and dark jeans into a black t-shirt and black cotton pants. Though they could feel the heat in their face, they restrained themself from immediately flipping off the light to hide their blush. 

“Ready?” they said instead, and when Montparnasse nodded, they plunged the room into darkness. Feeling their way over to the bed, they pulled back the covers on one side. They could feel Montparnasse moving similarly beside them, but after a moment the bed was still. 

“Goodnight,” they said softly, squeezing their eyes shut as though to block out the nerves still very much awake inside them.

“Goodnight, Jehan,” Montparnasse replied. “Sleep well.”

Despite it all, they did. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: I was kidding about turning this story into a sitcom. This is a Serious Fic.  
> Also Me: SHARING A BED TROPE
> 
> Hey hi sorry this took 80 years to update. My computer died and also life u feel? But guess what - smooching in the next chapter sooOOoooOOoo stick with me
> 
> HMU on tumblr at feyland


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW in this chapter for mentions of drug use, descriptions of scars (surgical and non-surgical), and some non-explicit kind-of sexy stuff.

The space beside them on the bed was empty when Jehan woke. Their head felt full of cotton, as though the events of the night before had left them with an emotional hangover that kept their thoughts from clearing. Instead, Jehan’s senses took over, taking in the morning light, the rumpled bedsheets, and the smell of cooking. Jehan closed their eyes again, allowing the memories of fear to pass through their head, but they felt as though the overwhelming panic had been wrung from their body. In the place of dread, Jehan could feel only the hunger in their stomach, the smells from the kitchen pushing at them persistently. Jehan rose and dressed, silently opening the bedroom door. Dull sunlight fell into the hallway from the living room window, dust particles whirling in the air as Jehan’s movement kicked up the inactivity of the little apartment. 

Montparnasse stood at the stove with his back to Jehan as the entered.

“Hungry?” he asked, without turning around. 

Jehan crossed the room, peering into the pan of whatever Montparnasse was working on. Mushrooms were browning in butter, and Montparnasse sprinkled in some pepper as Jehan inhaled.

“Starving,” they said. 

“If you’re willing to wait, I’m making omelettes.”

In response, Jehan lightly pushed themself up onto the counter next to the stove and crossed their legs. 

“I suppose I could manage that. Can I watch?”

Montparnasse snorted gently. “This isn’t exactly a fabulous culinary display. I wasn’t planning on flambéing anything.”

“I’m kind of a terrible cook,” Jehan admitted. “Really, anything you do will probably impress me.”

Half a smile crossed Montparnasse’s face as he began cracking eggs into a bowl with one hand, the flick of his wrist moving from practical into performance. 

“How did you learn to cook?” Jehan asked.

“I got tired of eating cold beans out of a can.”

Jehan looked at him, searching his face for humour but the comment seemed to be honest. 

“There was a while when I didn’t have, ah, somewhere permanent to sleep. When I started doing jobs with Claquesous, he found me a place to live. I didn’t really have anything other than some clothes and a whole lot of drugs. There were nights when I’d be so high on cocaine that I would make enough food to feed half of Paris and then not eat anything. I just needed to be doing something.”

He glanced at Jehan, searching their face for judgement, maybe, or disgust. Jehan felt neither, just curiosity at the cracks of Montparnasse’s life they were being permitted to see. 

“Not that hot surfaces and sharp knives go particularly well with being really fucked up,” he continued, flipping over his hand where Jehan could see a blotchy scar where Montparnasse must have burned himself. “But it was a lot less self-destructive than some of the other shit I could have been doing. I suppose I got pretty good at cooking, though. And now these fucks think I’m their personal chef.” 

“None of them can cook?” 

“Well, Gueulemer sometimes makes some of his Haitian food, but he puts plantains in everything and I fucking hate plantains. I don’t think I’ve ever actually seen Sous eat anything, but he’s barely human so that’s not exactly shocking. And Babet can’t even make cereal properly. I’m surprised his kids actually survived.”

“Babet has kids?” Jehan thought of the man who had held a knife to their cheek the night before and tried to imagine him with children. It seemed impossible.

“Mm. His ex got full custody when he was caught dealing prescription drugs out of his dental clinic and went to prison. He hasn’t seen them since.” 

Jehan was quiet, contemplating their assumptions and expectations in gang members. Almost everything they knew about organized crime came from fiction, or history from a time before they were born. Their ignorance ran deep, it seemed, and they studied Montparnasse as he cooked. The sharp edges of the beautiful young man were still obvious to Jehan, but the domesticity of the scene softened him just a little. 

Caught up in their own thoughts, Jehan jumped a little when Montparnasse handed them a plate. They slid off the counter and sat down at the table where Montparnasse joined them. The omelettes were heavenly, and Jehan realized just how hungry they were as they began to devour the food. When they paused to take a sip of coffee Montparnasse had set out for them, they noticed him watching, the ghost of a smile on his face. Jehan blushed and ducked their head, but made an effort to eat like a human being rather than a starved animal. 

The kitchen was quiet, the silence comfortable to Jehan as they collected the dishes once they were both done. They stood at the sink with their back to Montparnasse, who lounged with a cup of coffee in a patch of sunlight like a happy cat. In that moment, Jehan could almost pretend these motions were part of a normal existence, as though they weren’t living with murderers and drug dealers while in hiding from an even more dangerous gang. What they wanted, they realized, was to spend the day with Montparnasse, pulling details of his life and work out of him for the sake of morbid curiosity. Or just to sit in the same room as him, sneaking glances to examine obscenely long eyelashes, or the rings that decorated his hands.

For the second time that morning, Montparnasse startled them from their reverie as he came up behind them, placing his empty coffee cup in the sink.

“Sorry,” he murmured when he saw the surprise on Jehan’s face, looking them in the eye as he leaned over.

Jehan didn’t pause to think. They closed the few inches between their heads, kissing Montparnasse’s perfect lips before they could psych themself out.

They pulled away again a second later, their heart hammering as it seemed to send all their blood into their cheeks. Montparnasse’s face was all surprise, though Jehan searched it for signs of anger, discomfort, or pity. Instead, Montparnasse blinked, his expression shifting into a half smile, combining with his dark eyes into something almost dangerous. 

And then his mouth was on theirs again, firmer than their initial stolen kiss. Jehan took in a stuttered breath against his lips, and leaned in. Shifting slightly, Montparnasse had Jehan all but pinned against the counter, and he took their face in one hand, his touch gentle in a way his kiss was not. His lips were mouthing hunger, but it was Jehan who found his waist, pulling him closer to them. Montparnasse tasted like coffee and sugar, bitter and deceptively sweet like a poison Jehan could not get enough of. They felt hot, burning up under his touch, certain he could feel the flush of their skin and the rush of their pulse. The kiss was burning, and Montparnasse seemed fuelled by it as he held Jehan close. They stood like that, pressed together as their mouths moved, breaths shaky, hands moving from face to hands to hair.

The sound a door opening caught them both by surprise, and they parted just as Gueulemer shuffled into the kitchen, looking still dead to the world. He acknowledged them with the briefest nod before fumbling with the coffee maker. 

The blush still burning their cheeks, Jehan looked at Montparnasse who seemed somewhere between amused and stunned, but he nodded towards the doorway for Jehan to follow him.

There was nowhere to go, really, other than back to the room they shared. As he closed the door behind them, Montparnasse stayed where he was as he regarded Jehan, who sat on the bed with their back against the wall.

“Was that okay?” he asked, the question low and uncertain. 

Tempted to avoid his gaze, to try and quell the fluttering in their stomach, Jehan made themself meet his eye. 

“I should be asking you. I kissed you first.”

Montparnasse smiled. Not the smirk, or the half-smile of amusement Jehan normally caught on his face, but something not meticulously cultivated. Honest and open.

“Can I show you just how okay it is?”

Jehan let out a nervous breath and nodded. Montparnasse took only two steps to reach the bed, and sank onto his knees next to Jehan. Carefully, those long fingers tilted their chin up, running a thumb along their jawbone.

“Beautiful,” Montparnasse murmured, and brought his lips to Jehan’s. 

The coals of the kiss in the kitchen had given way to open flame. From their awkward position on the bed, the break in contact felt like a canyon, and Jehan tugged at Montparnasse, trying to find a way to bring him closer. Quickly and with surprising strength, Montparnasse managed to sweep Jehan’s folded legs out from under them, leaning them back on the pillows. He pressed his body against theirs, and Jehan felt like every part of them was suddenly heartbeat. Montparnasse’s mouth moved from their lips to their jaw to their throat, teeth scraping against their pulse, making them shiver. Touch took over thought, and Jehan found one hand running through Montparnasse’s hair, tugging at it in ways that brought out a soft gasp from him. 

Montparnasse’s hands also wandered, running up and down the length of Jehan’s torso, and they could feel his smile against their lips when they trembled. It wasn't until the tips of his long fingers were playing with the hem of their shirt that Montparnasse pulled back. 

“Can I?” he asked, searching for any hint of hesitation. But Jehan just nodded, wanting those fingers on their skin. They sat up a little as Montparnasse gently tugged the shirt up over their head. Their long hair, loosely tied when they had first dressed, had come undone, and fell around their bare shoulders. 

Montparnasse just looked at them. Such a pause might have made them self-conscious in another place and time, but Montparnasse looked at Jehan like they were a projection of light, something stunning enough to hold the attention of a young god. Slowly, he lowered his gaze, reaching for the buttons on his own shirt. Jehan watched as pale skin was revealed, beautiful even with the scars littering Montparnasse’s torso. Evidence of minor wounds and larger jagged gashes had healed over into a raised white topography. Amidst them, two smooth semi-circles below his nipples seemed abnormal in their professionalism. On the left side of his chest, black ink was woven into an anatomical heart. 

Jehan reached out, laying a hand on the tattoo, feeling the race of a heartbeat that matched their own. Slowly, they took Montparnasse’s hand in their free one, and drew it in, placing it against their own breast in a mirror image. Letting out a sigh peppered with nerves and want, Jehan lay back, leading Montparnasse down with them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoooow does kissing happen I've been in a relationship for too long???
> 
> This is as sexy as it's gonna get I think. but more kisses and stuff in the future I promise~~
> 
> on tumblr @ feyland
> 
> Leave me a comment as a (slightly belated) birthday present?


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for mentions of drugs and arson, as well as super vaguely implied child abuse.

“Maybe we shouldn’t have spent all day in bed,” Jehan whispered against Montparnasse’s shoulder as the streetlamp outside their window went on. Maybe it didn’t matter, though. Montparnasse’s sleep habits were erratic, entirely based on when and where Patron-Minette needed to be at any given time. Over the last few days, Jehan had slowly succumbed to the unpredictable timing. Montparnasse never gave details of where they were going, and to what end, but Jehan never missed the smell of sweat mixed with gunpowder, or the tender spots of newly forming bruises they discovered on Montparnasse’s skin when he finally fell back into bed with them. 

Perhaps it wasn’t their place to worry. Despite drawing Jehan into him like a starving man whenever he returned, Montparnasse kept them at arms length from the details of his illicit activities. Despite a desperate curiosity, Jehan never asked. Maybe it was uncomfortable confessing his crimes to anyone, or maybe it was to protect Jehan from the worry of unfinished business. Either way, Montparnasse’s confessions came in desperate kisses, as though Jehan’s lips were the gateway to salvation. 

“Why would I want to be anywhere else?” Montparnasse purred, the seductive edge of his voice almost enough to knock Jehan off-kilter.

 

Since the day of their first kiss, the physical closeness to Montparnasse had outstripped the emotional. It was not as though Montparnasse was cold towards them, or tolerant of their words only as a means of maintaining their touch. Instead, Montparnasse listened thoughtfully to their talk of books, the stories about their friends, and the confessions of depression that Jehan had found the courage to voice. He listened, Jehan knew, because he asked questions with a sense of interest that would be masterfully acted if faked. Upon his return from one secretive outing, Montparnasse had handed Jehan a bottle of their anti-depressants, an acknowledgement that made Jehan’s breath catch. 

Despite this, Montparnasse avoided the personal questions Jehan cautiously sent his way, falling back on smart quips or lofty hyperbole. Yet, Montparnasse was in the habit of dropping information about himself casually at unexpected times. This confused Jehan, as it seemed as though Montparnasse was not ashamed of his past, but was unwilling to discuss it in any sincerity. Jehan knew Montparnasse was trans, that he suffered from both anxiety and dyslexia, and that he was in a fragile recovery from a cocaine addiction that began when he was 14 years old. He had grown up in foster care, and something had happened to him in his last foster home that had marked the end of his childhood. That, Jehan did not press, and had shuddered internally at the cold look in Montparnasse’s eye when he mentioned it.

Still, the majority of their time together was spent in embrace, hot hands brushing skin, trembles felt under fingertips. The days and nights of broken sleep and company left Jehan always tired, but a single touch was enough to pull them back up above water. 

 

Montparnasse shifted when Jehan did not answer him, propping himself up on an elbow to gaze down at them. 

“Have you grown tired of me already, little bird?” His other hand ghosted over Jehan’s hairline tracing their face with deliberate slowness. His balance was precarious, though, and Jehan seized the opportunity to topple him back, pinning him down on the bed, their bare torso flush against his. 

“‘I am no bird, and no net ensnares me,’” they quoted, setting a kiss on his lips. “‘I am a free human being with an independent will.’”

“More like a minx,” Montparnasse growled, but his smile was sincere as he reached up again to kiss them. 

A sharp knock at their door startled them out of the kiss before it had the chance to grow, and Jehan fell back, sliding under the blankets in case the door were to open.

“Get up, Parnasse. Sous’s here and shit’s going down,” Babet called from the hallway, stomping off before he got any response.

Montparnasse sighed, but rolled off the side of the bed, running a hand through his mussed hair to smooth it back as he searched for a shirt in the darkening room.

Jehan was not privy to the plans and results of Patron-Minette’s inner workings, and quickly isolated themself when the gang gathered to discuss business. 

Jehan stayed curled in bed, then, as Montparnasse dressed and turned to go before pausing.

“You should come sit in,” he said, considering them. “I don’t know exactly what’s happening, but you deserve to know what’s going on.”

Jehan stared at him, startled, a million excuses and lines of reasoning filled their head, but more than anything, the desire to know the details of the fate they had left in Patron-Minette’s hands pushed forward. Nervously, they dressed and followed Montparnasse out to the living room where the three other men were seated, silent and tense. 

Claquesous sat in the far armchair, a plain dark mask covering most of his face, but did nothing to hide the curl of his lip as Jehan stepped into the light. His dark eyes flicked to the right, nailing Montparnasse with a cold stare. 

“Nice to see you getting along with our guest so well. Though I seem to remember you assuring me they wouldn’t be a distraction to you. That this,” he gestured to Jehan, “was all business. I’ve seen you get into bed with a lot of people for the sake of our work, but this is above and beyond the call of duty, Montparnasse. Tell me, did you wait minutes or hours after I left before fucking them?”

Jehan’s cheeks burned. They could feel Babet and Gueulemer’s eyes on them, but they couldn't meet anyone’s gaze, especially not Montparnasse’s as he tensed beside them.

“Shut up, Sous,” he said in a low warning. 

“And now you want to bring them into our inner workings, I see. Were they not getting enough intimate details out of you already? We were under the impression that they were being held in that warehouse against their will, but maybe it was always their plan to get into your pants before putting a bullet into your brain.”

Jehan’s mouth fell open, but if they had any protestation in them, it was silenced as Montparnasse crossed the room in two long strides, a short blade appearing and flipping open in his hand as he grabbed Claquesous by the throat. Despite the knife kissing his skin, Claquesous’ smile widened at Montparnasse’s fury, and he made no move to free himself from the grip. 

“I said shut up, Claquesous. I won’t say it again.” Montparnasse stared hard at Claquesous, who met his gaze with equal intensity. It was quiet for a moment, and then, though Jehan could see no change occur, Montparnasse released the other man and stalked back over to Jehan. Gently, he rested a hand on their shoulder, directing them towards the couch where he sat between Jehan and Babet, his posture mimicking an animal ready to strike out at the next threatening movement. 

“They went after our Créteil building,” said Claquesous, his tone unnervingly devoid of any emotion from his recent exchange. “It burned in minutes. Mostly gone before anyone even called the fire department.”

“Good,” said Gueulemer.

“What’s with them and burning our shit down?” muttered Babet.

“To be fair, we started that when we torched their warehouse,” replied Montparnasse.

“Why is it good that they burned your building?” The words came out of Jehan as much to their surprise as anyone else’s. Looks were exchanged between the men, but it was Claquesous who answered them.

“It’s good, dear Jehan Prouvaire, because it means Carbone’s people are following the Yellow Brick Road. They just won’t find a wizard at the end of it.” 

The unnerving smile was back, and Jehan ducked their head, the attention from the masked man sending pangs of discomfort and fear through them. 

“We were planning on them going after our supply rooms,” Montparnasse filled in quietly. “Both are basically empty, of course, but there are enough padlocks and alarms to make anyone think we’ve got the places stocked to the rafters. They’ve taken out Créteil, now we only have one left. They’ll expect us to go straight there, to try and save what’s left of our product. Which means it’s time for us to move in on them from behind, when they don’t see it coming.”

“Brujon’s here,” announced Babet, looking at his phone, and stood up with the others. Jehan stayed where they were.

“Now?” they asked, panic beginning to set in. Maybe this was why they had been told nothing about the plans Patron-Minette had for Carbone’s gang. At least ignorance meant they were safely free of worry. They reached for Montparnasse’s hand.

“You’ll come back.” They weren’t sure if it was a question or a demand, but they watched something change in Montparnasse’s gaze. He leaned forward as though to kiss them, but stopped, hovering above their face as he seemed to take in every inch of it. He glanced back quickly at Claquesous, who watched them with the intensity of stone.

“I will,” Montparnasse murmured, and pulled away. He snatched the jacket Gueulemer tossed his way, slipping into it, and following his associates through the living room doorway. If he took a fraction of a second to leave Jehan one last look, they didn’t see it. They listened as the front door opened and shut again, the sound of bolts turning the flat into a secure space. Car doors slammed outside, an engine growled, and then both the street and the little apartment were silent again. 

Jehan sat by themself for a long moment, trying to let their fears and frustrations cycle through them, as though acknowledgement was the key to keeping calm. The tension in the air had not left with the gang members, but instead seemed to thicken around Jehan’s head until they found it difficult to breathe. Unable to sit any longer, they went back to their bedroom, eyeing the bed that looked too large now in the little room. The sheets were crumpled, damp with sweat and stained with use and age. An uncomfortable thickness was bubbling up in Jehan’s chest, and they tugged at the quilt until it pooled on the floor. There must have been a laundromat nearby, they thought as they stripped the bed, gathering up the rumpled clothes they had brought with them as they went. They had been stuck in the flat for a week already, without a single breath of fresh air. Fear for their life still weighed on them, but Patron-Minette’s certainty of Carbone’s movements eased that as they slipped on their shoes. They had no keys with which to lock up, but they wouldn’t be away long, they reasoned. The night was cool; the edges of summer had been eclipsed by the north wind, and Jehan breathed deeply. Their laundry held together in a makeshift bag of sheets, Jehan walked without any real hurry up several blocks to a street of cheap shops and restaurants. It did not take them long to find a laundromat, it’s neon lights advertising 24 hour service. The inside was dim, and smelled of laundry detergent and impatience. A few people loitered, waiting for their cycles to end. Despite it all, it felt to Jehan like freedom as they loaded all of their clothes and sheets into a machine. They had brought a book with them, but found they were more engrossed in the people around them and passing on the street outside. It was as though the barest hint of company was enough to make a dent in whatever the fog was that had taken up residence in them. Loneliness, maybe, but incorporeal in any case. 

It was something of disappointment when the dryer finally beeped at them that it was finished. The thought of returning to the stuffy apartment to spend the rest of the night alone hung heavily over them. Jehan dragged their feet back to the building until they had no choice by to mount the stairs again. 

As they shut the door, Jehan frowned at the hallway in front of them. They had turned off all the lights before they had left, or so they thought. And yet, a single light spilled out of their bedroom. They had not expected Montparnasse to return so soon, nor to come back alone. He would be worried, or angry at them for leaving. Apologies on their tongue, Jehan stepped into the doorway.

Sitting on the edge of the bare mattress was a woman Jehan had never seen before. They started when they saw her, and the smile she greeted them with did nothing to calm the sudden burst of fear in them. 

“Hello, Jehan Prouvaire,” she said, her voice honey and ice. “My name is Carbone. It’s so good to finally meet you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is this??? a good twist??? leave me a comment bc im insecure 
> 
> Also I'm planning on writing some little ficlets for Jehanparnasse week (Oct 29-Nov 4) which I'll probs just post on my tumblr so if that's a thing u might like to read follow me there @ feyland.tumblr.com


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings: Violence, Misgendering, Disassociation. Also, some pretty awful threats of rape right at the very end. They're in the last couple of paragraphs if you want to skip them.

All the air went out of Jehan’s lungs as they stared at Carbone. Knowledge and instinct summersaulted through them as they struggled to put together what was happening. Rational fear had not yet settled into place, but the part of them that controlled their desire to flee forced them to drop their laundry and turn back towards the front door. Heavy footsteps on the stairs beyond began to sound as they reached for the doorknob, and Jehan silently prayed for a familiar face to find them. 

The face was familiar, but it only served to knock the hope out of Jehan’s lungs. Coming up the stairs was the bald man who had staked out their apartment, and who had shot at them as they fled with Montparnasse. He was nearly as large as Gueulemer, with a set of handguns sitting comfortably at his hips. He grinned at Jehan as they caught themself on the first step. Panic rolled through them like a nauseous wave, and Jehan clung to the banister, their mind screaming at them, without any way to appease it. A frantic look back into the apartment affirmed their dread as Carbone picked her way through the scattered clothes Jehan had dropped, a lioness stalking her cornered prey. 

“Not very polite start to our relationship,” she purred as she advanced on Jehan. “What do you think, Benoit?”

The bald man’s smile grew. “She did the same thing when I first tried to pay her a visit.”

Both had reached Jehan, all but pinning them against the wall, leaving them with no opening of which they could take advantage. Their face was hot, and they could feel tears and distress knocking around in their head, ready to burst out. Holding their arms up against their chest, they clenched their fists and tried to quell the tremors that radiated through their body. 

Carbone loomed over them, a step up. She reached out a single manicured nail and ran it along Jehan’s jawline, making them flinch. 

“Let’s try this again,” she said, softly. “Can you manage a simple introduction? I said, it’s nice to meet you at last, Jehan Prouvaire.” 

Jehan tilted their head up, meeting her eye, and spat in her face. 

The reaction was instantaneous, and Jehan’s mind could not keep up with their body as Benoit grabbed them by the hair and flung them down the stairs. Pain shot through their ribs, their arm, their head, as they rolled down past the initial impact. All the air in their lungs felt as though it had been sucked out, leaving them gasping shallowly when they finally stopped in a crumpled heap in front of the door. Logic tried to weave its way through their throbbing body to remind them that that door was the means of escape, but even as they tried and failed to push themself up off the ground, strong hands again found them, one snaking around their throat. A garbled cry tried to push past the blocked airway, and tears had begun to fall in earnest as Jehan watched through blurred eyes as Carbone descended the stairs towards them. 

“Unfortunate,” she sighed, and Jehan did not miss the inauthenticity of her tone. Carbone waved at Benoit to open the door, and Jehan struggled to stay standing as he adjusted his hold and began to drag them one-handed out of the building. Their legs felt too weak to hold them, and waves of nausea threatened to further cripple them, but each time they stumbled, the pain of Benoit’s grip worsened. 

The same car in which Benoit had pursued them was parked down the street, and as he opened the back door to push them inside, Jehan’s battered body felt some measure of relief even as their mind grew more and more paralyzed. Carbone said nothing as she slid into the passenger seat and Benoit started the engine. Half-lying crookedly across the back seat, Jehan wondered if they could manage getting a door open, but quickly abandoning the idea. Even if they could survive throwing themself from a moving car, there was no way they would be able to outrun Carbone and her goon in the state they were in. Instead, they tried to breathe through the panic and the pain, trying to determine what could be broken. Any breath beyond a shallow wheeze caused shooting pain through their chest, and one ankle burned as they tried to rotate it. Carbone and Benoit did not speak, even when Jehan managed to inch themself up into a seated position, trying to gage where they were. Heading east out of the city proper, fewer and fewer cars shared the road with them, though Jehan determined that any attempt to catch the attention of another motorist had little chance of success anyway, and would more likely than not bring down some form of retribution from their captors. 

Jehan struggled against the hopelessness that threatened to overwhelm them. What most caused their fear to surge and turned their stomach was the fact that they were not blindfolded. Everything about Carbone was organized and meticulous, from the details of what must have been her plan to gain access to the safe house, to the calculated nature of her words, to her shiny, pointed heels. If she had intended a blindfold, it would not have been overlooked. Instead, Jehan understood that it did not matter to her if they saw where they were going, as she was not intending on letting them out alive. The panic welling up in Jehan’s chest served only to make their ribs ache, and so they did their best to dispel the thought, instead focusing on every turn and street name they could retain, just in case.

They had thought perhaps they were being taken to Meaux, but Benoit instead turned sharply into the driveway of a motel on the outskirts of Montfermiel. He parked behind the building, the car hidden from the road in front of the faded facade of the building. Only two other vehicles occupied the parking lot, one of which was covered by a tarp. Jehan scanned the windows of the motel, but all were dark. They twisted a little in their seat, letting out a low hiss as their torso protested, trying to find signs of the nearest people who might be able to hear them call out. Their heart dropped as they saw nothing but a large, untended lot on two sides of them. The closest buildings may just as well have been on the other side of the world. 

Jehan started as the car door beside them was wrenched open, and Benoit again had them by the hair, dragging them out onto the asphalt where they stumbled and fell to their knees. The sharp sting that ran up their legs was minimal compared to the bruising Jehan had suffered falling down the stairs, but with the night air biting at their skin, in a position of weakness before people whose simplest movements could cause them pain, Jehan felt something break. 

A vague buzzing crept into their head, trickling like water as it encircled their brain, disconnecting it from their body. The hyper-awareness and panic of only moments before settledinto something foggy and far away. Even the physical pain dulled, and they did not react to the rough tug on their arm as Benoit hauled them up and towards the the staircase leading to the outdoor walkway of the second floor. 

The room they were dragged into was dim even as Benoit turned on the overhead light, which flickered and buzzed like a trapped firefly. The double bed was messily made, and cigarette butts littered the floor. One corner of the greyish carpet had a dark stain on which Jehan’s muddled brain did not linger. 

“Put her in the bathroom,” Carbone said, and she followed Benoit as he steered Jehan towards the back of the room. 

The bathroom was tiny, dirty, and freezing. Exposed pipes of the sink and toilet collected small mountains dust, and the low shower head dripped loudly onto black mold-encrusted tile. Benoit gave Jehan a shove, sending them stumbling against sink. Gripping it in an attempt to remain upright, Jehan struggled to maintain a neutral face as they turned towards their captors. Carbone had stepped forward, her face an unnerving mask of serenity. 

“Better get some sleep, Prouvaire. You’ll want to be well rested when your friends come to rescue you.” She smiled, a glint slipping into her eye. “That’s what you believe will happen, isn’t it? That Patron-Minette will come running for their whore? Why don’t we give them a little incentive.”

Swiftly, Carbone drew out a switchblade from her jacket, flicking it open as she took a single step forward, closing the distance between them. A muffled hum of something vibrated in the back of their head, but Jehan did not flinch even as Carbone grabbed a handful of red hair and pulled it taunt with one hand. The knife cut clean through, and Carbone released Jehan, her smile never wavering. 

“I’ll send this along in the morning,” she said. “Give them the proof they need to come after me. Just a little fun before I exterminate them like the vermin they are.” 

Carbone raised a hand to Jehan’s face, but only a gentle pat landed. Then she turned, muttering something to Benoit before walking briskly off. Jehan heard the motel room door open and shut, leaving them alone with the towering man on the threshold of the bathroom. 

“I’ll be out here all night,” he said to them, a leer plastered on his thick face. “I’m supposed to warn you against trying anything funny, but I have to admit, I’d sure like an excuse to get my hands on you some more.” 

Despite the fog still encircling their mind, Jehan felt a line of ice run down their spine.

“The boss says I can have you once she’s done with you. Maybe I’ll fuck you next to the body of that pretty boy of yours. Maybe I’ll cut you up while I do it, let you bleed out next to him.”

Jehan began to shake, a response to Benoit’s words they couldn’t hold straight in their brain. Benoit barked out a laugh as he watched them shudder, and turned away, slamming the bathroom door behind him. In the pitch dark, Jehan felt their legs behind to buckle, and they sank to the dirty floor. Their face was wet though they had not felt the tears come this time. They leaned their back up against the door, their only barrier against the monsters beyond it, drawing their knees up to their chest, and let out a shuddering breath. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yoooooo sorry this took me way too long to update - I was busy writing some stuff for Jehanparnasse week, and then some bad brain stuff hit me. 
> 
> Also, just based on those last few lines, I want to make this clear: I am super duper NOT going to write a rape scene. Deffo not in this fic, probably never in general, but just in case that was worrying anyone. 
> 
> Some motherfuckers gonna die tho.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for guns, graphic violence, slurs (including homophobic slurs), misgendering.

It was a long time before Jehan forced themself to move. They could hear the television faintly in the next room, but there had been no voices, no noises threatening enough to send the dull ache in their core into panic. Uncurling themself from their huddled position, they stretched out their stiff limbs, clenching and unclenching their fists in an attempt to warm their fingers. They reached out in the dark, sliding their fingers along the wall until they found the light switch. The result was momentarily blinding, and Jehan blinked hard. Nothing in the grimy, windowless bathroom presented itself as something with which they could escape. A single faded towel hung on a rack, and Jehan pulled it down, wrapping it around themself for the most threadbare touch of warmth. 

Tentatively, they turned on the sink faucet, relieved that the water, despite its light pressure, was clear. They twisted the handle again, and waited as the water heated up to a lukewarm. Nothing scalding, nothing that would hurt their captors, even if they had a vessel in which to hold it. They shut the water off and caught sight of their reflection in the dirty mirror as they looked up. A ragged patch of hair hung limply by their cheek where Carbone had cut it, and bruises were forming on their face and neck. They lightly prodded the marks Benoit had left around their throat and winced. His grip had been strong, and exact, like he was comfortably familiar with how to choke the life out of someone. 

Exhaustion, so familiar to them now, radiated through Jehan like a second heartbeat. For a moment they considered shutting off the light and trying to find a way to sleep, but the thought of being caught unconscious and blind sent sparks of panic crackling from their chest. Instead, they let the fluorescent light be, and sat up against the wall opposite the door. In the corner, a spider worked away at the husk of an insect unlucky enough to have found its way in. Jehan could not help but pity the spider too for the place it had chosen to call home. From where it hung on the far side of the web from them, the strands of silk were woven around it like a barred cell. 

Jehan was still considering it, pulling their thoughts into some sort of verse, when they nodded off.

 

The peace of sleep was ripped away from them again when the bathroom door burst open, their shock and drowsy confusion erupting in a fearful cry. Benoit stood in the doorway with another man Jehan did not recognize. Both wore cruel smiles, lips curled as they stared down at Jehan. 

“ _This_ is Patron-Minette’s whore?” the stranger asked, and he reached out to grab their arm, dragging them roughly to their feet. His eyes raked Jehan’s body as they pulled out of his grasp and tried to shrink back against the wall, crossing their arms over their chest. 

“Her cunt must be worth something. Not like she has any tits,” Benoit agreed, leering at Jehan, who turned their face away as their eyes began to burn with repressed tears. 

“That’ll be a treat,” said the other man. Lightning fast, he snatched Jehan’s arm again and began to pull them out of the bathroom. “Come on, Carbone doesn’t have all day, bitch.”

The man pulled Jehan into the motel room and over to a door that connected it to the next unit. The room beyond was nearly identical to the other, though easier to see in the daylight that came streaming in through the half-open curtains. Jehan had slept through the rest of the night, a realization backed up by the crick in their neck and the stiffness in their body they could feel beyond their bruises.

A sharp shove from the stranger sent Jehan stumbling into the room. Pain shot up their left leg as they tried to catch themself, and their swollen ankle gave way, sending them to their knees. A few feet away, Carbone was sitting in a worn armchair, contrasting its faded upholstery with sharp, clean lines. Benoit crossed the room to stand behind her chair while the second man stepped closer to Jehan, making them flinch. He laughed, a single harsh bark, and reached out to casually strike Jehan’s head, making their ear ring.

“Enough, Rault,” Carbone said, and the man stepped back, smirking at Jehan as he leaned against the wall beside them. 

“Well, Prouvaire,” Carbone said crisply. “Your friends have proven to be about as accommodating as they’ve ever been. Rault took the time out of his busy schedule to negotiate an agreement around you, and what did he get for his trouble?”

“A shot-out tail light and a bunch of empty threats,” Rault supplied, sneering. “I think we’re wasting our time with you. Clearly no one wants to do more than replace you with some other loose cunt. Or maybe they’ll just take turns sucking each other off. They look like a bunch of fags anyway.”

Jehan refused to meet his eye, staring down at the floor instead as he spoke. They wanted to scream that Patron-Minette didn’t own them, didn’t owe them anything. That they were an inconvenience at best, and a major liability at worst. That Carbone should kill them now and get it over with, since she had nothing to gain from them either. They were a useless pawn who had found themself on the wrong game board.

But the protestations died in their gut, unable to pass their lips, as Montparnasse’s wordshad not yet found a way out of their head. He would protect them, he had promised. He would get revenge on the people who had hurt Jehan. Promises accompanied by caresses over skin that still burned as Jehan thought about them. Maybe they were nothing more than a distraction to Montparnasse. And yet, the thought of him facing Carbone and her men sent fear like cold water through them. His blood on their hands would scar Jehan, whether or not they were able to outlive him.

“I think Patron-Minette needs a more forceful reminder of what is going to happen to the people close to them unless they’re willing to consider our terms,” Carbone purred. “Some photos should do the trick. Some video too, perhaps. I would love for them to hear you scream. You will make her scream, won’t you Benoit?” 

Horror filled Jehan as their head shot up, suddenly not wanting to let anyone in the room out of their sight. Benoit’s smile was huge as he took a slow step around Carbone’s chair. 

“My pleasure,” he growled, and began to push up his sleeves. 

Jehan didn’t have to time to think it through. Leaping to their feet, teeth gritted against the pain, Jehan was ready for Rault’s reaction. He was shorter and more wiry than Benoit, though he was still significantly taller than Jehan. Their shoulder caught him in the chest, and the force coupled with surprise sent him stumbling back against the wall as Jehan turned to run. Nothing stood between them and the front door. If they could just make it out, if they could push through the pain in their ankle and their chest and their head- 

They reached the door, praying it would be unlocked, hoping for a miracle to save them a second that could spare them their life. They had just laid a hand on the knob when they were grabbed from behind, pulled away painfully in Benoit’s crushing grip. Hope had died but adrenaline had not, and reflexively, Jehan twisted in his gasp, bringing their knee up hard into his groin. 

Benoit howled. The sound reverberated through Jehan’s skull, drowning out Rault’s shouts. Benoit managed to maintain his control of Jehan as he threw them to the ground, a heavy boot pressed against their back. A hiccuped sob escaped them as they fought for breath, and they struggled under the weight until they heard the sharp click of a revolver next to their ear. Rault was crouched, wearing a twisted mask of fury that made Jehan go still and quiet, nothing but their own heartbeat reverberating in their ears.

“Keep her alive.” Carbone’s order broke the second of silence. 

Slowly, Benoit’s foot was lifted off Jehan’s back, letting them catch a bruising breath that they let out in a whimper. They didn’t have time for a second before the boot came down hard on their hand, crushing it. 

They screamed as agony fired through their body to their brain, blinding them with the force of it. They screamed using air they didn’t have, choking on nothing, gagging and retching in ways that only clawed at their ribcage. Even as Benoit raised his foot, Jehan couldn’t see past the waves of nausea to take in the shattered ruin of their right hand. 

They did not know how long they lay there, broken and sobbing, before Benoit and Rault hoisted them up like a limp rag doll. Through the haze of tears and aguish, Jehan could make out Carbone standing in front of her chair, a cell phone held out as she recorded the scene. 

“That will do,” she said, sounding very far away, and Jehan was dragged out of the room. 

There was no need to push Jehan back into the bathroom. They crumpled into a heap as soon as the two men released them. Shaking, they tried to draw in their arm to cradle their crushed hand, but it was grabbed again and yanked forward as cold metal clamped around the wrist. With nothing left inside them to fight back, Jehan let their other hand be restrained, the chain of the handcuffs wrapped around the exposed sink pipe to tie them soundly to the wall. When Benoit and Rault were done, they left the room in silence, shutting off the light and slamming the door behind them, leaving Jehan in the dark misery of their prison. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SORRY
> 
> this is probably as bad as it's gonna get though??   
> anyway I'm also tentatively setting a goal for 3 more chapters buuuut who knows it might be more


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for guns, violence, and detailed descriptions of injuries and pain.

Blinded in the darkness, Jehan’s other senses heightened. The tinny dripping of the leaky shower head hit the drain like a weapon. The musty smell of disuse filled Jehan’s throat as they gasped for breath in between sobs. And of course, the agonizing throbbing of their hand felt intensified with nothing to distract from it. 

Waves of nausea washed through Jehan, and they gagged, dry-heaving in a way that made their ribs hurt more, a cycle of misery that exhausted them. There was nothing in their stomach to throw up; it had been an entire day, maybe longer, since they had last eaten, and hunger began to clench at them, a gleeful ache on top of everything else. 

Their tears died before their sobs did, and it was a long while before the anguish left Jehan hoarse. Every part of them hurt, a hundred different kinds of pain. An uncomfortable numbness had begun in their left arm from the awkward position in which they were chained, overcompensating for the limp wreckage of their right hand. Jehan rolled their shoulder, attempting to direct the smallest bit of comfort into their arm. The motion jostled the handcuffs, sending a spasm of pain up their right side, causing them to cry out. They held as still as possible after that, hopelessness encasing them like a death shroud. 

It was thirst that demanded their energy again. Empty of tears, their mouth dry from sucking in air, Jehan set the remains of their determination on the sink to which they were bound. Holding their hands as steady as they could, they slowly rose to their one good foot until their arms could go no further. They navigated with their head, blindly seeking out the tap, finally managing to nudge it on. A thin trickle of water sputtered out, and Jehan bent their head to drink. The water hitting their empty stomach sent nausea through them again, but they leaned against the sink, breathing carefully until the feeling faded again. Jehan managed to shut off the faucet again, and slowly slid back down to the floor as dizziness overtook them.

The water had cleared their head a little. The fear and pain were still overwhelming, but something else simmered underneath. Fury, disgust, hatred - Jehan was careful with these feelings. They had, for so long, tried to lead with patience and compassion. But those principles had shattered the moment they had awoken in the warehouse, bound to the whims of people who pledged themselves to cruelty and greed. Jehan wanted them to hurt as they did. They wanted their captors to experience everything Jehan had been dealt, from the first blow to the head that had pounded them down into this underworld. 

The idea hit Jehan with that same force. There was nothing in the room, Jehan had thought, heavy enough, or sharp enough, to injure. But something played in their mind as they tried to remember every detail of the bathroom in the light. The heavy porcelain lid on the back of the toilet had been hiding in plain sight, innocuous in its mundane usage. If they could get to it. If they could manage to hold it. If- 

Carefully, Jehan prodded at their handcuffs with their good hand. Heavy, sturdy, and locked tightly, they were almost enough to send Jehan again spiralling into defeat. But as they lightly touched the wrist of their ruined hand, they found something alongside the pain. The cuff around their right wrist was looser than the other. A small mercy, maybe, or a hurried job that seemed to do for a broken captive with a shattered will. It was not large enough that they could have wiggled a good hand through, but a grim solution offered itself up instead. 

Jehan took a breath, and then another, in an attempt to steady themself. It would be painful, but they were already well acquainted with pain. The plan might get them killed, they also told themself, but if they stayed here, Carbone would certainly kill them herself. Slowly, maybe, extending the agony as far as it would stretch. 

The first bit of pressure on their fingers sent a gasp out of Jehan’s mouth as their body protested and begged. They could feel the sickening looseness of bone as they gritted their teeth and began to push. Folding their fingers under each other, pushing in the edges of their palm, Jehan molded their hand into something as thin as possible. The air felt thick around them as their breath left them again and again in sharp sobs, and lights that weren’t there entered their vision, trying to distract Jehan with their haze. 

The first attempt to tug through the metal loop sent fire into Jehan’s brain, almost enough to make them stop, to lie down and pray for death to reach them before Carbone did. Instead, Jehan used that desire, channeling it into the anger that fuelled them, and yanked. Their broken hand came free, sending them falling back against the wall, subduing the scream that tried to escape. Muffling their face into the crook of their elbow, Jehan sat, shaking, waiting for the waves of agony to subside, a panic rising in their chest when it did not. They felt weak, their whole body screaming at them, furious from the damage Jehan had not meant to cause. 

“I won’t let them hurt me without fighting back,” Jehan whispered aloud, surprising themself. The affirmation had fallen from their lips unaided. 

“I am going to escape,” they tried, and the promise solidified as it left their mouth. “They underestimate me. I am stronger than this. I am stronger than them. I can survive this.” Slowly, Jehan shifted, balancing on one good leg, supported by one good arm, as they struggled off of the floor. 

“I am strong. I am strong. I am brave,” they whispered, and they made it to their feet. It occurred to them that they could turn on the light, but worried it would spill out from the crack under the door. Instead, they hobbled over to the toilet, reaching out blindly. Their fingers hit porcelain, coated in dust, and Jehan felt their way up to the lid. Awkwardly, they pried it up with their left hand, nudging it onto their right arm. It was heavy, and the weight seemed to press into every bruise on their body, but Jehan held the lid firmly, shifting it into a solid grip. With only one hand, they knew they could not swing it with enough force to injure, but the toilet’s positioning gave them an alternative. If they could manage to get up on the toilet seat, gravity could manage most of the force they needed. 

It was not much of a plan, all composed of desperation and limited options, but grim determination settled in Jehan’s core, settling some of their rolling nerves. 

“Not without a fight,” they whispered to themself, and reached over, slamming the toilet seat down with all the strength they could muster.

A startled noise came from the next room, letting Jehan know they had successfully caught the attention of their captor. As quickly as they could, they dragged their broken body up onto the toilet, lifting the lid with shaking arms over the doorway just as heavy footsteps landed beyond it. 

The door flew open, Benoit’s expression of anger and confusion lasting no more than a second as Jehan dropped the lid. The resulting crack might have been sickening to Jehan if they gave themself the time to consider it. Instead, Benoit dropped to the floor along with the shattered porcelain, and Jehan did not hesitate. Leaping off the toilet, they landed just beyond the doorway, their good leg taking most of the force. No bellows of rage or raised alarms followed them as they ran, stumbling, towards the motel door. It was locked, and chained, and Jehan’s hands were shaking so bad the doorknob wouldn't turn on the first try. They let out a sob, terror and adrenaline pulsing through them, and twisted the knob hard, throwing open the door. The morning sun had been replaced by dark clouds that rolled overhead. Still, it could not have been later than mid-afternoon, and Jehan sent a thanks out into the universe for the daylight. 

Dizzy and disoriented, Jehan felt as though they were moving through water as they staggered towards the staircase leading to the parking lot. Noises seemed far away, and Jehan struggled to identify the sound of a motor until they could see a black car lurch around the corner. Panic and dread surrounded them, but they pushed on, stumbling down the stairs, away from the demons behind them, and towards the unknown. A loud pop made their ears ring, but they didn’t give themself time to place it until a second one sounded and the side of their torso began to burn. 

The shots did not come from the car, though, but from behind Jehan. As they reached the bottom of the stairs, twisting around the bannister, they could see Carbone striding across the balcony towards them, gun in hand. 

A third shot rang out, and Jehan flinched. But instead of biting pain, there was only a screech from above. Carbone clutched at her shoulder, her mouth open in pain and fury. Still hanging on to the railing for support, Jehan turned back to the car. Their vision was blurry, the edges dark and spreading like an ink stain, but Jehan caught their breath as they recognized the figure crouched by the driver’s side. Claquesous continued shooting, his mouth twisted into a snarl beneath his half-mask. More car doors flew open, and Jehan watched familiar shapes spill out of it. 

A noise not dissimilar to Carbone’s cry filled the air, and made something inside Jehan ache. Their bad leg began to crumple under them, the waves of pain crashing in from all sides. 

“M-” they tried, but the word wouldn’t come. 

Montparnasse was running, shouting something Jehan could not understand. They let go of the railing, taking a shaking step forward, and fell, collapsing into darkness before they could reach him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok that's the end of Jehan getting hurt I SWEAR.
> 
> yell at me on tumblr @ feyland


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for hospitals/hospital-related things

It was the persistent beeping that roused Jehan from the deep sinkhole in which their mind floated. The low voices around them were soothing, almost enough to settle them again. But every few seconds, a sharp electronic chirp went rattling around Jehan’s head. They frowned. The movement felt slow and heavy, like the muscles in their face had forgotten how to move. Light prodded insistently at their eyelids, but to open them seemed an impossibly daunting task, and so Jehan let their other senses work. They were warm, almost uncomfortably so. Parts of their body felt weighed down by an unfamiliar pressure, but no real pain reached them. They couldn’t feel their right hand at all, and they found no success in a cautious attempt to move it. A different sort of weight claimed their left hand, and as they turned their foggy mind over to it, they felt the soft, rhythmic stroke of the thumb of whoever was holding it. Gathering what strength they could muster, Jehan slowly opened their eyes, blinking at the blurry room around them. 

Courfeyrac’s face was the first thing that solidified in Jehan’s vision. His eyes were red from the remnants of tears, his mouth open in surprise, uncharacteristic struck dumb. He made a sound like a choked wail as he squeezed Jehan’s hand tightly, and then Jehan was surrounded on all sides by expressions of concern and relief as their friends drew closer. 

“Jehan,” breathed Grantaire, looking like he was unsure of whether or not to touch his friend least they shatter. 

“Wh-” Jehan croaked, the words catching painfully in their dry throat.

Instantly, a cup of ice chips was brought to Jehan’s lips, and they accepted the spoonful offered to them by Combeferre, his hands and expression steady, though his eyes betrayed his worry. 

When they had managed to swallow enough water and cleared their throat, Jehan forced themself to take in their surroundings. They were in a hospital bed, clearly. The smell of antiseptic and the harsh fluorescent lighting illuminating sterile white walls made them dizzy, and they blinked hard a few times as their stomach turned a little. An IV hung beside their bed, ending in the hand Courfeyrac still clung to. 

He had begun sniffling again, though he tried to smile widely at Jehan in a way that made them want to comfort him despite their situation.

On their other side, Bahorel stood behind Grantaire, fidgeting. Eponine leaned against the wall looking somber, offering a quick smile that didn’t reach her eyes when she saw Jehan looking her way. 

“Do you remember what happened, Jehan?” Combeferre’s voice was calm, his bedside manner steady despite the consensus of concern in the room.

Memories of fear and panic were close to the surface, but Jehan swallows them back. There is too much to wade through, too much to try to wrap their head around. 

“Not…really,” they murmured, and they watched their friends exchange looks.

“Well,” began Combeferre, “the hospital was told you were mugged - you’d been beaten, and…shot. Someone brought you in but left before they could be asked for any more details. You, ah, weren’t conscious when you arrived, and were taken to emergency. I think the amount of blood was worrying them the most, but it seems the bullet wound was mostly superficial.”

Grantaire’s face was dark, and he reached over to stroke Jehan’s hair as he saw the fear painting their features. A fat tear made its way down Courfeyrac’s cheek before he wiped it away with a sniff. 

“Do you- Would you like me to tell you about what damages you sustained? I’m sure the doctors will go over it with you in detail soon, but if you’d rather know now-.” For all his gentle airs and professionalism, Combeferre’s forehead creased as his eyes stayed firmly on Jehan’s face, actively avoiding looking toward the broken parts below. He looked tired.

“Yes, please,” Jehan said, their voice still small. Breathing, they found, was a difficult thing to manage.

“You were treated for shock when you first got in, and eventually given a sedative to help you rest. They were initially worried about possible head trauma but it seems they’ve ruled that out, which is a significant relief. You have a cracked rib, which might give you some difficulty breathing, though it will likely heal on its own. You broke the talus in your left ankle and tore a ligament. You might need surgery depending on if the bones are out of place or unstable. You were grazed by a bullet which thankfully wasn’t nearly as bad as it initially seemed, but I think there will be some pain and scarring in your torso depending on what was actually done in the ER. They wouldn’t actually tell me very much about what procedures exactly were performed-”

“Because you’re not a doctor, Ferre,” said Courfeyrac with a watery smile. “They aren’t going to let you watch over their shoulder and take notes.”

Combeferre ducked his head sheepishly. “I only wanted to know what Jehan could expect in terms of recovery.”

Jehan smiled, finding the muscles in their face more ready to obey. Their left hand still trapped in Courfeyrac’s grasp, unconsciously they tried to raise their right towards Combeferre in thanks when a spasm of agony shot down their arm. They let it fall back onto the bed, jarring it further, and drawing a pained yelp from their throat. Blatant panic was in every expression as Jehan’s friends watched them squeeze their eyes shut, trying to breathe through the angry throbbing. 

“I should have started with that,” said Combeferre, miserably. “Your hand - it’s very badly broken. Four fingers are fractured, as well as couple of bones in your wrist. It’s - I’m so sorry, Jehan.”

Jehan weakly opened their eyes again, blinking at the tears of pain that obscured their vision as they tried to examine their hand. It was wrapped in tight gauze, and looked unnaturally large, although whether that was the dressings or the severity of the swelling, Jehan could not tell. The memory of the sickening crunch of Benoit’s boot made Jehan feel sick. 

“Someone stepped on it,” Jehan said, hoping they wouldn’t be pressed for more details they might remember.

Combeferre just nodded. “You’re probably going to need some extensive physiotherapy. I would think there’s also some nerve damage, but the nurse I was speaking to wasn’t very forthcoming. Enjolras was, ah, getting a little frustrated about the lack of information they were offering us and was asked to leave. He’s in the lobby now, trying to contact your parents.”

“Joly and Bossuet are there too,” added Bahorel. “You’ve had so many visitors we have to come up in shifts. Feuilly was here until he had to leave for work.”

“Cosette sent the flowers,” said Eponine, nodding to the display crowding the windowsill.

The weight of their friends’ love pressed softly around Jehan, drawing them into the embrace of comfort, familiarity, and safety. Despite the pain and the drawn-out horror that still colouring their memory, the bright hospital room felt like a sanctuary. Jehan’s eyes welled again, gratitude and affection spilling over their lashes. 

“Thank you,” they said. “I’m sorry to worry you all so much.”

Courfeyrac made an indignant noise. “Yeah, this is _so_ inconvenient to us,” he said, though his exaggerated sarcasm landed gently. “You’re the last person who should be apologizing for anything.”

“We just wanna help. I’m personally down to find the fuckers who did this to you and bury them alive, but I’ll have your back either way,” said Bahorel.

Jehan hummed, their chest warm and their head fuzzy. 

“We should let you rest,” said Combeferre, and sent a pointed look at Courfeyrac who had opened his mouth to argue.

As Jehan’s friends said their goodbyes, offering cheek kisses and promises to visit soon, Jehan reached out their good hand, newly freed from Courfeyrac’s, and lightly brushed Grantaire’s arm. 

“Stay?” they whispered, catching Eponine’s eye too. She moved slowly away from the wall where she had stood mostly silent and still, an expression of trouble firmly etched on her face, as the others left the room.

“I need to tell you what happened,” Jehan said, plainly. 

Grantaire’s mouth opened, confusion on his tongue, but shut it again as Eponine just nodded, turning his eyes back to Jehan. The little room quiet was aside for the low whirring and beeping of machines. The bed next to Jehan’s was empty, but their voice was muted as they spoke nonetheless, Grantaire and Eponine leaning in close to hear. 

“I wasn’t mugged.” The truth came out slowly, the words faltering at times, as Jehan tried to push through the panic that welled up in them as they relived details. They told Grantaire and Eponine of how they had met Montparnasse, how they had been tracked to their home, and again at the safe house. They could not look their friends in the eye when they told of the torture they had endured in the motel.

Raw horror was painted across Grantaire’s face when Jehan looked up again. Eponine looked stricken. 

“Montparnasse-,” she said, but could not seem to finish.

“He was trying to keep me safe. The whole time. I don’t remember much after I was shot, but I think Patron-Minette must have at least gotten me to the hospital. Ponine, do you- Have you heard from him?”

Eponine shook her head, but her eyes had widened. 

“Jehan, I think… I went to my parent’s place a couple of days ago, to try and save some stuff from being pawned off. They…own a motel in Montfermiel. I thought it was weird that there were just a few of people renting the whole building. I texted a picture to Parnasse. It was meant to be a joke. I asked it he was pulling some shady shit with parents, but he never answered.”

Distress was growing on Eponine’s face, and she looked at Jehan pleadingly.

“Jehan, I had no idea you were- I didn’t know.” A sob broke out of her, and she clamped her mouth shut as Grantaire reached over to rub her back. 

Jehan’s cheeks were wet. “Eponine, that probably saved my life. You’re probably the only reason he knew where I was.”

That was enough to break Grantaire too. He reached out to squeeze Jehan’s good hand as he too started to cry, the weight of Jehan’s story bringing down his defences. None of them said anything for a moment, attempting to stifle their tears. 

“I don’t know where Montparnasse is,” said Eponine at last, wiping her eyes. “I haven’t heard from him.” 

“It’s okay, Ponine,” said Jehan, but their heart sank a little, and worry filled the empty space. “If- If you hear from him, let me know?” 

She nodded, and sniffled. 

“Jehan, are you going to be safe?” said Grantaire. “Are those people going to keep looking for you?”  
“I don’t know,” whispered Jehan. It was the question that was somersaulting in their mind. They needed to know if Montparnasse was okay. They needed to know what had happened to Carbone. Someone from Patron-Minette must have brought to them to the hospital and fabricated the story of their mugging, but that still told Jehan little of what had happened after they collapsed in the motel parking lot. 

“You can’t talk to anyone about this,” they said instead. “Especially not the police.”

Eponine nodded, but Grantaire looked torn, worry on his brow. 

“R, I don’t know if anything about Carbone would necessarily lead back to Montparnasse and Patron-Minette, but I owe them too much. And if Montparnasse is…” They paused, trying to breathe through the words that cut at their chest. “If Montparnasse is dead…” They shook their head, unable to finish.

“It’s not your fault,” murmured Eponine, but Jehan barely heard her. The not knowing was settling over them like a fog, obscuring the brief moments of comfort they had felt upon waking. 

“I’m sorry,” they said. “I just needed someone to know. I didn’t want to be alone.”

 

Eponine and Grantaire sat with them a while longer until a nurse came in, shooing them away in order to change Jehan’s wound dressings. Jehan watched her adjust their IV, and soon weariness found its way into their bloodstream. 

They didn’t dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you had a nice Christmas if you celebrate, and a nice Monday if you don't 
> 
> if u wanna give me a Christmas present u can leave me a sick comment ayy.
> 
> writing trigger warnings for this chapter was like???? ur faves cry i guess??? where's the mutilation and murder?? but yeah now is time for healing and not hurting Jehan anymore. 
> 
> Anyway, I'm planning one more chapter and then an epilogue I think.
> 
> hmu on tumblr @ feyland


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning for hospitals, talk of wounds/past violence.

Jehan lowered themself back onto the bed, their breath whistling through clenched teeth as they landed harder than anticipated. Four days had habituated them to the constant low buzz of the hospital’s heartbeat, and the dim lights still illuminating the wing even into the small hours of the morning. It was the pain that kept them up, uncomfortably familiar but unable to be ignored. The painkillers they had been administered made Jehan groggy and nauseous, and lethargic to a point of frustration. With the recommendation that they make an effort of stand and walk, they had quickly pushed back against the medication that felt more crippling than helpful. 

It was, however, hard to bear that decision the moment pain flared in their leg, jolting Jehan out of their dull doze. They had pulled themself out of bed, attempting to balance on their single crutch as they had made small circles around their room. The movement had pulled at the stitches in their side, and the pressure of their weight on the crutch had added an ache in their armpit to the overall experience. Most uncomfortable was the numbness of their right hand from where it hung limply in a sling. Talks of numerous surgeries to come had worried Jehan less than the potential total loss of mobility. 

Anxieties treaded water in their mind as they clumsily scooted their way back under the covers, adding more to the windstorm of factors keeping them from sleep. In the haze, Jehan didn’t notice the visitor until he had reached their side, his hand just stopping short of Jehan’s shoulder.

Jehan started, trauma catching their squeak of distress in their throat, and Montparnasse drew back abruptly. 

“Jehan,” he breathed, his face twisted in an uncertainty Jehan had never seen there before. 

Jehan’s chest felt tight as they struggled to sit up, heat running up their throat into their cheeks and their eyes, and they breathed out in a gasp, letting defences fall. Tears ran down their cheeks as they stared at Montparnasse, afraid he would vanish if they were to blink. 

He watched them, looking as though he were also fighting an internal battle, as though he were certain Jehan would shatter under one more hand.

“You’re okay,” Jehan managed to croak, shuddering from the effort, and tried to hold out their shaking hand to him. 

Only then did Montparnasse close the gap between them, letting Jehan clutch at the front of his shit in an effort to draw him nearer. He sat lightly on the edge of the bed beside them, letting them cry against his shoulder as he stroked their hair, out of synch with his own uneven breaths. 

It took some time before Jehan could calm their hiccuping sobs, and when they drew back again, they were relieved to see that Montparnasse, neither dream nor spectre, had not vanished again. His own cheeks were damp, his eyes glassy as he looked back at Jehan, as though memorizing the topography of their face should he ever lose them again.

“You’re alive,” Jehan said hoarsely, and felt a wave of delight as Montparnasse let out a single note of laughter.

“Was there any doubt?” he quipped, though his voice sounded strained in Jehan’s ear. 

“Much too much,” they said, and watched as a hint of sheepishness played over Montparnasse’s usual curated expression. 

They paused a moment, then asked: 

“What happened?” 

There were so many questions encased in those two words, tangled into knots of fear and blindness inside their head. Montparnasse opened his mouth as if to protest, but Jehan fixed him with a look, their face set in grim determination. 

“I need to know.” 

Montparnasse exhaled. “She’s dead,” he said. 

If a streak of shame ran through Jehan for finding themself celebrating the death of a human being, they buried it under the force of relief that hit them like a train. 

“She’s dead,” Montparnasse repeated, reading their face. “You’re safe. I promise, you’re safe.”

Jehan turned away from his gaze. They couldn’t help but remember him saying the same thing to them when he had driven them away from the warehouse on the night they met, and again when he had taken them into hiding. But Carbone was dead. She was dead and she couldn’t hurt Jehan anymore. 

“How?” they heard themself ask, meeting Montparnasse’s eye again, steeling themself for an answer they weren’t sure they wanted to hear. 

Montparnasse looked troubled, but didn’t protest. 

“Sous shot her. He didn’t even know who she was at first, but after she hit me-”

“HIT you?”

Montparnasse flinched. 

“One of her bullets nicked me. Just here.” He lifted the edge of his shirt, revealing the lower part of his torso, partially covered in gauze.

“We match,” Jehan said weakly, gesturing to their own side, concealed under their loose hospital gown. 

“It’s why I didn't come to see you sooner,” said Montparnasse. “I, ah, try to avoid hospitals. Too many records. Babet did an alright job, though. Probably the best person I know to have around in an emergency. He brought you here after making sure you weren’t—.” Montparnasse swallowed hard. “I didn’t know if you were going to be okay. I needed to make sure the people who did that to you payed for it.”

Jehan watched something in Montparnasse’s face shift. The worry drained out of it, hardening into something sharper, darker. 

“Claquesous’s aim is too good. I didn’t get the chance to break Carbone first.” He wasn’t looking at Jehan anymore, as though he were trying to avoid showing them the full scale of his fury. “But we found her piece of shit thug in the room, trying to get up. He— I shouldn’t tell you. He’s dead too.”

“Tell me.” The severity in their own voice surprised Jehan.

“Jehan— I watched a video of him breaking you apart. I got that and a chunk of your hair with threats of sending more pieces of you unless we gave into them. The things—.” Montparnasse’s voice broke, and he shook his head. “The things he did, and the things he was going to do…I wanted him to suffer. But I don’t want you to think about me that way.”

A part of Jehan wanted to know every single thing Benoit had endured. They wanted to think about hurting him, about hurting Carbone for what she had done to Montparnasse too. But the imagined scenes flashing in their mind’s eye made Jehan cold, and in the moment, they feared their grim desire for blood. Most of all, the sincerity and guilt in Montparnasse’s expression tightened the lock on the place Jehan’s dark desires lived. 

“Would you like to know how I do think of you?” they said instead, reaching out their hand for Montparnasse to take, which he did tentatively. The wariness that came from a life of distrust was evident as he stared at Jehan. 

“I think of you like a character in a book. You were like a ghost, and I felt haunted by you for weeks after we met. At that point, you were more imagination than man to me. I was afraid of who you really were. But I’m glad I kept reading.” 

Montparnasse’s mouth quirked. Jehan could feel their face heating.

“That’s unfair to you, though,” they said, pressing on. “You’re not a character. You’re a person with motivations no one can tease out in an analysis. You aren't a symbol of anything but yourself. And I’ve been afraid of that because I fell— I had feelings for the character of Montparnasse. I’ve never been good at, you know, romance, because I romanticize everything until it’s all painted over in my mind, blocking out genuine qualities for my imagined ones. But I think…” Jehan took a breath, feeling their heart beating under their sore ribs. “I’m more interested in real Montparnasse. Everything I’ve experienced around you should have erased the filter I put on you when we first met, but it hasn’t. All this time in the hospital, I wanted to see you, to tell you that I’m okay and that it wasn’t your fault, and that…I’m sorry.”  
Montparnasse’s face twisted. “Jehan, you don’t have to—.”

“I just needed you to know.”

They were both silent a moment. Jehan’s heart still fluttered in their chest, but the relief of honestly lightened the weight of it. 

“I suppose the part where I tell you to stay away from me because I’m dangerous isn’t going to be very effective here, is it?” Montparnasse said at last, his tone light but his eyes searching. 

Jehan snorted, and then laughed, hard enough that they had to throw their good arm over their chest to cradle their ribs. “I think that options was left behind a while ago,” they wheezed. 

“It’s selfish, because my conscience is telling me not to let you in, where you could get hurt again. And if that’s what you wanted, I would make sure you never saw me again, I swear.” Montparnasse’s eyes sought out Jehan’s, holding them with his intensity. “Maybe I’m just not strong enough, but you’re too hard to walk away from. If you’ll have me, Jehan Prouvaire, I am all yours.”

Jehan felt tears forming again in their eyes, but they blinked them away as they lightly touched Montparnasse’s face, drawing it near enough for them to kiss him. Apologies and fears dissolved in the embrace, instead drawing in the giddy warmth of the moment.

Eventually, the hollowness of exhaustion made its way through Jehan’s body, and Montparnasse curled up alongside them in the narrow bed, holding them in a cradle of peace. He would be gone in the morning, Jehan knew, but the promise of him would stay with them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry like 75% of my chapters end with Jehan going to sleep/passing out??? but in this case my defence is that the poor kid needs their sleep to heal soooo.
> 
> Anyway, these two have dealt with enough - I'm not going to make them go through a bunch of Relationship Difficulties at this point. 
> 
> Just one more chapter to goooo. Thanks for being on this journey with me <3 
> 
> hmu on tumblr @ feyland


	16. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for the very briefest mention of drugs. And fluff.

“How many - oof - more books could you possibly have?” Courfeyrac said as he lugged the box towards the door. 

“I think there’s only one more,” Jehan said, anxiously wishing for the thousandth time that they could help with the physical labour of transporting their admittedly massive library. 

“Don’t even think about it,” said Bahorel sternly as Jehan bent down towards the final box. Quickly, he scooped it off the floor as though it weighed nothing, and reached a hand out to help steady Jehan on their crutch. 

“You good?”

Jehan nodded. As guilty as they felt for having their friends help them move when they could do little more than give direction, the normalcy of spending time with cheerful, familiar faces somewhere other than in a hospital room was heartening enough for them to bear it. 

“Here, Courf, lay ‘er on top,” Bahorel called, crouching to let a grateful Courfeyrac place his box on top of the other.

“You’re going to throw out your back,” Courfeyrac said doubtfully as Bahorel made his way out the door and down the stairs. 

“Ya gotta lift with your knees!” Bahorel called back. 

“Showoff,” Courfeyrac muttered before grabbing a lamp and following Bahorel down. 

 

Jehan looked around. Their apartment was nearly empty, every closet door open to be sure nothing was missed. Yet, even bare and filled with late autumn sunlight, Jehan couldn’t help but feel the discomfort at being left alone there. No matter how many times they repeated Montparnasse’s promise of safety in their head, Jehan’s flat was the place to where Carbone had tracked them. She couldn’t hurt them anymore, they knew, but shadows of her and Benoit haunted their mind, and the thought of living alone there was sickening. 

A solution presented itself in an empty apartment in Grantaire’s building. The flat directly above Grantaire’s, on the top floor of the building, was smaller than their old apartment, enclosed by slanted ceilings and dark wood. To Jehan, it was the perfect place to build a safe haven.

 

“I think this will be the last trip,” Grantaire said, coming out of the bedroom with a flower pot in each arm. “After we unload, I’ll come pick you up. Sound good?”

In response, Jehan reached up to lay a light kiss on Grantaire’s temple. “Have I mentioned you’re the best friends anyone could ask for?”

“I think I may have heard you say it once or twice or eight thousand times,” Grantaire said. “Anyway, my motivations are completely selfish. Do you know how convenient this will be when I lose my keys? Or when I’m out of weed? Or when I need to prove how fucking amazing I am at massages?”

“Totally selfish,” Jehan smiled. 

“Any excuse for a housewarming party, too.” 

Jehan snorted. “You’re going to have to wait until I’ve at least started to unpack.”

“Feuilly said they’d come over as soon as their shift was done to help set up.”

“Feuilly works too hard,” Jehan said, their forehead creasing. “They can help set up the bed and then take a nap in it.”

Grantaire laughed at the same time a horn sounded from outside. 

“Gotta go!” he said, and turned to the door. “Be back for you soon.” 

 

Jehan watched from the window as Grantaire carefully loaded the last of their plants into the bed of Bahorel’s truck, before sliding into the cab.

As they drove away, movement in Jehan’s periphery made them jump, a rush of panic slamming into them as they whipped around. In the doorway, Montparnasse’s look of uncertainty morphed into concern.

“You scared me,” Jehan breathed, placing a hand on their thundering heart as they coaxed wind back into their lungs.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t think,” Montparnasse said, his hands clenching and flexing at his sides as if he didn’t know what to do with them. 

Jehan’s pulse did not slow as they reached a hand towards Montparnasse, silently inviting him in. Looking relieved, Montparnasse closed the distance between them, letting Jehan draw him into the cautious embrace of two people healing from recent injuries. Jehan had abandoned their crutch against the wall, the whole of their balance reliant on the safety of Montparnasse’s arms. Resting their head on his shoulder, they breathed in his scent. Cigarette smoke faintly beneath a warm perfumed smell Jehan did not bother trying to identify. Instead, they clung to Montparnasse when he went to pull away, eliciting a soft laugh from him as he yielded to Jehan’s stubborn insistence. 

“How’s your hand?” he asked into their hair instead. 

Jehan grimaced. “It hurts, which the surgeon tells me is a good thing. It means I’m getting feeling back. I just wish that feeling wasn’t, you know, an insistent throb that plagues me day and night.”

Finally permitted to draw back, Montparnasse smiled at Jehan, bowing dramatically in a way that Jehan couldn’t help but consider unfairly graceful, and held out his own hand.

“May I?”

Compared to his slender fingers and dark, painted nails, Jehan’s cast seemed inelegant as they placed it in his palm. Montparnasse brought his lips to it, laying the ghost of a kiss on the lumpy white plaster.

“That isn’t fair,” said Jehan, blushing. “I can’t feel it.”

“I suppose I’ll have to make it up to you,” Montparnasse said with a smirk, and caught Jehan around the middle, smoothly pulling them into a kiss before they could catch their breath. A twinge of pain ran up from the scar on their side as they reached around Montparnasse’s neck, but they ignored it, the ache only serving to mirror their heart, desperate to expand beyond the confines of their chest. Montparnasse’s lips were hungry, and Jehan realized he was following their lead. It was Jehan who pushed the kiss deeper, nipping at Montparnasse’s bottom lip as he took in a breath, drinking in the resulting sigh. Carefully leaning back against the wall, Jehan shifted their weight from Montparnasse, only to give them the opportunity to pull him against them. Jehan’s body was alive with electricity, bolts of lightning coursing through them as Montparnasse pressed close to them, letting his hands run up and down the length of their torso. Jehan let themself get lost in the moment, their overstimulated worries of the past few weeks bowing to the overwhelming force of affection and desire. 

“I love you.”

The words, breathed into their ear, sent a mess of shivers down their neck, and they failed to stifle the beaming sigh that it sparked. They pulled back, needing to see Montparnasse’s face. His cheeks were as flushed as Jehan’s felt, and his lips were dark and swollen from kissing. The openness in his face was not lost on Jehan, nor was the relief and joy when Jehan replied, “I love you too.”

They held each other in that suspension of time, swaying slowly in the embrace, stealing kisses. It was only when footsteps on the stairs and a loud clearing of the throat interrupted them did they finally pull apart. 

Jehan smiled sweetly at Grantaire who leaned casually in the doorframe, a light smirk on his face, though he eyed Montparnasse warily. Their first meeting a few days earlier had left Grantaire with a begrudging respect for the other man despite the preconceptions Jehan had begged him to lock away for the time being. 

For his part, Montparnasse simply smoothed his shirt, any discomfort expertly masked.

“Did you seriously show up just in time to not have to lift anything?” Grantaire said, and Jehan was relieved to hear genuine humour in his tone. 

“On the contrary,” Montparnasse said. “I believe I’m just in time to accompany this delightful creature to their new home, quite an important task, I imagine.” 

Grantaire snorted, digging one hand into his pocket and pulling out the key’s of Bahorel’s truck. “You ready, Prouvaire?” 

Jehan nodded, taking one last glance around the empty flat. Looping their arm through Montparnasse’s, they followed Grantaire out into the hallway, and turned to lock the door behind them.

They had loved their flat, and a part of them ached to leave it. But there were other ways, they knew, to find home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And SCENE. 
> 
> Holy moly thank you so much for making your way through this fic! I haven't posted a fic online anywhere since high school, so having the support, the amazing comments, and the patience. 
> 
> There are honestly so many headcanons and stuff that didn't make it into the fic that I'm??? dying to talk about??? Things like how Jehan got lots of great therapy, and also how they would be totally fine physically after a while. And like. what happens in the D&D campaign. So if you ever want to come talk/listen to me go on for 8 years, hmu on tumblr @ [feyland](http://feyland.tumblr.com/)
> 
> ALSO Mardisoir did a fucking beautiful series of covers for this fic which killed me and then revived me from the dead which you should go look at immediately [here](http://mardisoir.tumblr.com/post/170381268150/mardisoir-devils-backbone-by-feyland-book#notes)


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